Bacon sizzles in the pan. Mitchell opens the refrigerator, gets out three eggs, cracks them against the counter, scrambles them in a bowl. He turns back to the stove, flips the bacon. Grease pops his skin, and he slaps his wrist, brings it up to his mouth, sucks on the burn, the way she sucked on every part of Natasha last night, and before he realizes, his tongue is doing a somersault dance.
He shakes his head, returns to the eggs, adds salt, pepper, scrambles them until the yolks blend with the whites into a pale yellow liquid. He goes back to the refrigerator for cheese. He likes sharp cheddar, but Natasha only buys Parmesan, prefers the saltiness to it, that it melts better, but is lower in fat. So health conscious. He sprinkles a handful from the bag. He guesses he should get used to compromising now. A pang in his heart tells him he already has.
He returns the cheese, closes the refrigerator and notices the calendar on the door. Red and green X’s counting down to the 25th, which is double circled in yellow rings. Eight more days and this will be his life forever.
When he turns around, he finds that his bride-to-be has emerged from the bedroom, rubbing her eyes. She wears his wrinkled t-shirt, which looks ten times better on her than it ever did on him last night. The creases and ripples in the cotton fabric dip and stretch over the curves of her body at just the right angles, shaping her figure like how water surrounds and compliments an object partially submerged on its surface.
She slowly walks over to him, sliding her bare feet across the floor. She wraps her thin arms around his waist, lays her head on his chest, looks up with that smile, that same beautiful smile that made his whole world stand still the first time he laid eyes on it. Her cheeks radiate like the sun. He kisses them both, and she in turn kisses him where his heart stutters to beat.
“I love you,” she says softly, cooing like a dove.
Oh, god. He loves her too. He scoops her into his embrace. He kisses her neck, and up her neck, and along her jawline, and to her lips, lingers there, then back down to her neck, and her collarbone, and across her shoulder, and further down. He can’t stop kissing her.
He pulls his shirt up over her head. She’s naked underneath, and this only arouses him more. She rushes in, curls her fingers over the top and inside his slacks, drops them to the floor, hooks her arm around his neck, pulls him down to her, inhales his scent, laps him up. He cups his hands around the backs of her thighs, lifts her with a grunt, sits her on his hip.
Bacon in the pan getting crispier by the second. He’s cooked too.
“Tell me you love me,” she whines, desperate, like she’s pleading with him, like she’s in physical agony not to hear him say it.
“I love you,” he whispers, lips tracing the curve of her ear, and he can feel her smile, can feel her hold her breath and let it release.
And he releases all of him inside her. His insecurities about them, his hesitations to move too fast, his worries and cares. She accepts all of it and more, assures him with every kiss, every moan, that this is right, that to deny themselves this moment would be like death, the one needing the other just to breathe.
Oh God, If every morning is like this for the rest of his life, he will be complete, he prays.
But a faint voice in the back of his mind tells him he should have waited.