Page 47 of Cold Front
The post-game celebration at Roman and Hunter’s apartment had been fun, but chaotic. That bathroom moment, though? That was different. The air had changed. I could still feel the heat of Niall standing close, the way his expression had shifted when I’d admitted to dating guys. I’d seen the look in his eyes—something raw in his gaze, something hesitant. Then Micah had banged on the door, breaking the moment, but I couldn’t shake the look on his face, like he’d been caught in something he didn’t quite understand.
Maybe that’s why, on our way home, I’d asked him to make breakfast with me this morning. Maybe I wanted to spend time with him. Maybe that’s why I’d stayed up so late thinking about it.
And now, here I was, teaching him how to cook breakfast.
I glanced over to see him observing me carefully as I sifted flour into the mixing bowl. I caught his eye and winked. “This is going to be the best breakfast you’ve ever had.”
He rolled his sleeves up, stepping closer to the counter. “We’ll see about that.” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice, but I can tell he’s actually kind of into it. He wasn’t giving me a hard time, but just stood there like he’s actually paying attention.
“You know,” I said as I grabbed the baking powder, “there’s something satisfying about making a meal from scratch. It’s different from just throwing something in the microwave, you know?”
“Yeah, I know,” he muttered, shifting on his feet. He looked at the ingredients like they were radioactive, but then his gaze flickered to me again, his lips curling into a small smile. “I guess it’s not that bad. So, what’s next?”
I grinned, feeling a little rush of pride. “Next, we mix everything together. This is the tricky part. If you don’t do it right, the pancakes turn out all wrong.”
“Yeah, I’m sure the pancakes will be fine.” His sarcasm wasn’t sharp; it was like he was actually enjoying himself.
I grabbed a whisk and started combining the dry ingredients—flour, baking powder, sugar, and a little salt. I cracked and beat the eggs in a separate bowl before adding them, along with the melted butter, to the dry mixture. Niall watched closely, arms crossed, before finally reaching for a measuring cup to pour the milk in. Then, I whisked everything together until the batter was smooth.
“You wanna try flipping the first one?” I asked, stepping back to give him room at the stove.
Niall looked at me like I’d just asked him to perform open-heart surgery. “You trust me with that?”
“Absolutely not,” I said, grinning. “But it’ll be fun to watch.”
He rolled his eyes but picked up the spatula, sliding it under the pancake. He gave it an awkward flick, and the pancake flipped… right onto the counter.
I snorted. “Solid effort.”
Niall glared at the pancake like it had betrayed him personally. “That was supposed to land back in the pan.”
I grabbed a paper towel to wipe up the mess. “Yeah, that’s usually how flipping works.”
Instead of responding, he scooped a spoonful of batter and flicked it at me. It landed on my wrist with a wet splat.
“Oh, you did not just?—”
Before I could finish, another glob of batter landed on my cheek.
I gaped at him, but Niall just smirked, like he was proud of himself. “What? Thought we were having fun.”
I grabbed a handful of flour and tossed it in his direction. It puffed up like a mini-explosion, dusting his hoodie and hair. He blinked at me through the cloud of white, and for a second, I thought he would murder me.
Then he laughed.
Not a chuckle. Not a scoff. A full, genuine, chest-shaking laugh. It was the first time I’d ever heard it, and I swore it did something weird to my heart.
I barely had time to process it before a handful of flour hit me square in the face. I yelped, stumbling back, and Niall grinned—actually grinned—as he swiped a streak of batter off his arm. “Okay, Chef Eli, let’s see you handle that.”
The next few minutes were chaos. Syrup drizzled onto my sleeve. Niall ended up with butter smeared across his cheek. Somehow, a pancake landed on the floor, and we both just stared at it before breaking into another fit of laughter.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed this hard. And judging by the way Niall’s eyes crinkled at the corners, the way his shoulders shook, I didn’t think he could either.
Maybe that’s the thing about moments like this. They snuck up on you. One second, you’re teaching someone how to make pancakes, and the next, you’re standing in a kitchen, covered in flour and batter, listening to the sound of laughter you never expected to hear.
And damn, it sounded good.
Laughter still bubbled in my chest as I wiped flour off my cheek, my stomach aching from how hard I’d been laughing. Niall had this breathless, almost stunned look on his face, like he couldn’t quite believe he’d let himself go like that. I liked this version of him—grinning, unguarded.
