Emmylou had woken up to the smell of eggs and bacon, a feast in her kitchen. She’d thought she’d been dreaming at first, the consequences of a hangover, but when she’d really lifted her head to make sure the flat wasn’t on fire, there he was, the world’s fittest bull rider announcing breakfast. And asking her about shady kitchen art.

That had taken a while to explain. She’d floundered for a moment before poorly explaining on the brief trudge to the kitchen. And then it hadn’t really mattered, and George could be banned from her flat for forever, because the only thing better than Ben telling her he’d made breakfast was seeing that he’d stacked all of those fluffy pancakes and strips of bacon onto plates she’d forgotten she owned. Eating it had been pretty great, too. A full American breakfast. She hadn’t stopped smiling about the surprise until they’d landed back in bed, comfortably full and ready for something sweet.

Emmylou had begged him, in the exhausted whispers that followed, to let her watch the next time he started getting into it with a spatula.

Now she was back in the kitchen, showered, mostly dressed (because semi-pajamas counted), her hands cupped around the last of her coffee. While her kitchen was a decent little piece of London, her houseguest was by the far best looking part of it. Especially considering recent design decisions.

When was she going to learn to keep her mouth shut about the Harpies or Nolan’s lacking grocery shopping skills? And when had George become such an expert on charms?

She caught Ben’s eye and smiled, leaning back into the counter as she looked him over. “Thanks for breakfast. It was amazing.” It really had been. Her kitchen smelled as good as he looked. And the house special afterward had been particularly delicious. It didn’t even matter that it was halfway to lunchtime now, and that she had needed a second coffee when they’d climbed back out of bed (where they had ended up after a more involved tour of her sink, door frames, couch, and rug). “I need to eat American more often.”

Lou nudged him with her foot, slipping the coffee mug behind her and using her palms to push away from the counter. She closed the small space between herself and her new favorite cook (perks of city living), and settled lazy arms lightly over his shoulders. “Do I need a jacket?” She raised a questioning brow before breaking out in another smile: the sort that said she could handle whatever elements a fast ride would throw her way. “What about big studded boots and a heart and skull tattoo?” She shifted her arm a little to flex it playfully, and then grinned down at the space between them, at their bare feet. There were some rides that didn’t require shirts and shoes. Her toes wiggled a bit on the bare floors.

Eyes traced over his wrist, and she grinned again, looking back up. “I’d look like a badass, either way,” she decided, shrugging. “And you need someone to remind you not to drive on the wrong side of the road.” She was so excited to get on the motorcycle that she’d almost suggested going immediately after breakast, foregoing their lingering fun. (But then she’d knocked some sense into herself, or let those abs do it for her.) She couldn’t wait to zip through London and ruffle some old ladies’ feathers, get further out of the city and… just live in the moment. Enjoy the air and the company and chasing cars. “You’re not secretly part of a cowboy biker gang, are you? I need to show up at my cousin’s with some company.”

And because the magic word, cousin, had come out of Emmylou’s mouth, her eyes moved past Ben’s shoulder almost reflexively. That thing George had drawn… traced… was staring back at her. Given the size of her kitchen, it was impossible to miss… but it would have been impossible to miss in a huge kitchen, too. Her family were gifted like that.

It had been hilarious. For an hour or two. A day. Enough time to make a few friends choke on their beers or blush. But now. She couldn’t even have her mother over, not that she was itching for it. “Actually, if you could just bring a bull to his place for tea sometime…” She locked eyes with him again. “I would owe you a… really… big… favor.”

Ben was used to an early morning. It was a little weird to get up and not have anything to do. His neighbor was keeping an eye on Cheeky, which was who he usually went out and fed. This morning, he decided he would make a hearty meal for Emmylou, who seemed to not have a care in the world, even as the sun started to make its appearance through the buildings lining her little piece of London.

Shirtless was often how he moved around. His jeans hung just on his hips, a comfortable level for the not-so-young man. Not when compared to the bedmate, anyway.

Ben had searched cupboards and moved a few things back and forth while looking for all the tools he would need for breakfast making. What he uncovered on the chalkboard wall had nearly made him drop the carton of eggs. Nearly. He was usually good at hiding his surprise, but that...

It looked like it belonged in some troublemaker’s school book. After he stared at it for a good two minutes, he finally set to finishing the meal, cracking eggs and tossing them away one after another.

If he was being honest... he stole a piece of bacon before fixing their plates and setting them down on her table. Or two, but who was counting? She still wasn’t awake! After washing his hands, he’d gone after her for a good morning wake up, blankets pulled back and chilly hands on her abdomen. Ben had grinned and laughed at her reaction, kissing her, morning breath and all.

She had nothing on a bad day for a horse, or a guy who had spent enough time with a bunch of unshowered men on a mission in the military. Her messy wake up was beautiful, and he told her as much before dragging her out with a last bite of bacon from the third piece he’d snatched up. If he also inquired about the wall art, asking “Who’s @$#k is that?”, it was just meant in good fun. Mostly.

Food had been exactly what the doctor healer cowboy ordered. She had wiped him out and it felt great. He had a little business tomorrow at the Ministry, but until then... he didn’t mind spending his free time with Miss Carter. That included the sheets they twisted up in after everything had been washed down with some good ol’ fashioned orange juice and coffee.

The second cup of coffee settled in perfectly with the chew in his cheek. Ben remained shirtless as he crossed his arms over his chest, smirking despite the chunk lumped at his lip line. “I’m glad you liked it. You didn’t have enough milk to make my famous buttermilk pancakes. Maybe next time.” He even explained how he made the eggs taste so delicious: it involved bacon grease, a little bit of milk, and a lot of pepper and salt. “Anytime you want it, just ask. I have a few recipes up my sleeve.”

When she started asking about motorcycle wardrobe, he started laughing after the first question, which he responded to with a very clear “Yes.” Tattoos, however, were optional. He covered his eyes as he laughed, shaking it as he sighed. Picking up the small cup, he spit and rolled his eyes at her ridiculousness. “Mm... just wear something warm. I have your helmet.” Fingers ran through his hair before moving back to the cup he held. His free hand ran down her bare bicep. “These are frightening enough without a tat on them, just so you know.”

Another laugh escaped and he shifted until he had his arm wrapped around her waist. Ben picked her up with a soft grunt and held her against him, grinning. “How about a petting zoo instead? I’m sure I can wrangle a few chickens and a goat together.” He gave her a soft kiss before putting her back down, tapping her backside. “Go get dressed, I’m ready.” Even if he had to still pull his shirt and jacket on, it was a lot quicker than waiting on a woman.

Cold hands on her warm tummy sent gooseflesh up her arms. Even if they also felt nice. Strong, skilled hands. Emmylou made a squealing sound and turned her head away, cheek toward the blessed pillow that kept her sleeping through his culinary ventures… but she couldn’t help grinning. Soon, she caved, and her arms were clasped around his neck.

The kiss tasted like bacon, even though Emmylou scrunched her nose— she hadn’t washed her face or brushed or teeth or anything. But she really wasn’t too bothered about those sorts things, and he hadn’t seemed to be, either. Which was another reason she liked him. She could give him lazy morning kisses and tangle him up in messy hair if he was sweet enough to make her bacon.

She’d barely blinked the sleep away from eyes and smiled at the strip of said bacon in his hand when he asked about the art.

Of course. George had charmed it to give a vivid anatomical demonstration, even.

Emmylou’s lips parted and she squeezed her eyes a bit before shaking her head and tilting her head sideways at him, trying to figure out what he was thinking. “It’s just my cousin’s,” she began, and then elaborated: “He traced it.” Which sounded easier, in theory, than it had been. But one look was enough to know much thought George had put into it. “It was funny until I realized he’d charmed it to be semi-permanent… And it’s…” Emmylou frowned in the direction of the kitchen and leaned into Ben before looking up at him again— she couldn’t help it, when her lips became a little smirk. “Well, you saw it. My kitchen is a little cramped for that.” To put it mildly. “Mmm, but it smells perfect in there. Like you made enough bacon to hide it.”

The last of the sleep was leaving her voice, even if her explanation for why George had done it was a jumble of truths and guesses as they entered the kitchen. “If my mum ever sees it, I’m going to tell her it’s a game for Amelia and we just forgot to finish drawing the rest of it.”

Because infants were really at the stage where they could pay attention to detailed drawings.

But it might work: if she didn’t have enough milk for making feasts, maybe she didn’t have enough chalk to cover the walls. They were so hard up at the moment, the people in her flat, that Ben didn’t even have a shirt. Poor thing. Lucky Emmylou. She admired the rebellious bump of his lip where the tobacco sat; it wasn’t a habit she had taken up, but she liked how he looked doing it, and had come to enjoy the strong taste when she kissed him. Coffee and tobacco and maple syrup together, mmm.

“Maybe you can make them for me at your place,” she said, with a wicked little grin. “You have whole cows full of milk.” And probably some awesome American imports, the sorts of sweets one couldn’t find at Honeydukes. Lou had heard tales of peanut butter everything. Her smile widened. “Were you a chef somewhere in between the military and bull riding?” She wouldn’t put it past him. Except that he didn’t like to wear clothes. “What sleeve?” She added, a laughing whisper.

She watched him spit as she considered his next words… and thought vaguely about what jackets she had laying around that would work for a motorcycle and the warmer hours of a summer day. And a helmet. She wasn’t even going to complain about that part— she wasn’t stupid. It wasn’t like quidditch. “Thanks,” she said, in an I know tone. “Yours are just plain illegal.” Her eyes shot to his upper arm before settling on his eyes.

A laugh echoed his as he picked her up. Arms moved her properly around his neck and she raised her brows at his lofty, brilliant idea. “A goat?!” In Nolan’s living room. “Sold.” She smiled into the kiss and rocked on the balls of her feet as she came back down. Her face was a little pouty at the encouragement to get dressed, and she briefly pressed her face back under his, stealing another kiss beneath his chin. “It’ll take me two minutes,” she insisted, giving him a once over as she shuffled past. “Does chewing keep you warm so you only have to wear jeans?” She asked, just before swinging around the door frame and heading over to her closet… area. Clothes were littered around it, including the dress she’d worn out last night on their pub crawl.

But she couldn’t put that back on, even if it would make hooking her legs around the motorcycle’s driver a whole lot easier. Instead, she opted for jeans. She discarded the pajama shorts unceremoniously and then scrunched the denim around one ankle and then the other, before doing a jumping balancing act in the direction of her shoes as she tugged the jeans over her hips and bum. That was the hard part, even if the zip and button were snug enough after that amazing breakfast. They’d stretch comfortably through the day, and certainly on the back of a motorcycle.

“Almost ready,” she shouted, muffled by the material of a shirt she was pulling over her head. She paused in front of a mirror, ran her fingers through her hair, and then grabbed a jacket off the coat rack by the door. She’d already brushed her teeth and showered before the second serving of coffee. “Come on, before I pull your reigns too hard.”