19. Debugging with Syrup
DEBUGGING WITH SYRUP
SEAN
The morning sun spills through the shades, turning my tiny kitchen golden.
Greg hums to himself, absorbed in the quiet ritual—pouring batter and coaxing perfection out of the iron like it’s a piece of delicate machinery.
The light hits his beautiful skin, making him look half myth, half miracle, standing there as if he’s always belonged.
I don’t even own a waffle iron, and yet he’s conjuring perfectly crisp, golden magic like a domestic god.
I lean against the counter, watching him, and feel a deep, steady calm I haven’t felt in… forever. It’s ridiculous. I shouldn’t feel this safe, this content. But seeing him like this, so utterly himself and unselfconscious, it hits me like a pile of bricks: Greg is my mate.
“Did you actually bring a waffle iron over?”
He turns around, smiling, all teeth and tusks. “I did.”
I slip my arms around his waist from behind, resting my head on his back. “I love you.”
Greg freezes for a moment, then spins, eyes wide and sparkling. “You… love me?” he asks, voice a mix of disbelief and delight. “I mean, I know we said it last night during…”
“Yeah, I meant it then, and I mean it now. Even without being inside you.” I try not to grin. “This is me. Loving you. With breakfast.”
He laughs, brushing a stray bit of flour off his naked shoulder. “Well, in that case, I love you too.”
“Please feel free to cook naked for me anytime.” I take his hand. “Breakfast with a view.”
“I’m not naked. I’ve got briefs on.”
I grin, pressing a kiss to his palm. “For now.”
And for a moment, my brain wanders—because there’s always a part of me thinking about responsibilities, about the people I care for.
Greg nudges my hip. “You’re staring again. What’s up?”
I shake my head, smiling sheepishly. “Just thinking about Ashley.”
Greg quirks an eyebrow. “What about?”
“She’s probably drowning in some fifteen-page paper or cramming for an exam.
She’s stubborn, brilliant… and way too independent for her own good.
” I pause, resting my forehead against his arm.
“I’m her big brother. But I’m also her guardian.
I worry about her, you know? But I also know that I can… I don’t know, still have my own life.”
Greg grins thoughtfully, brushing a hand over mine. “You’re a wonderful big brother. But you know what? I think she’d approve of this—us. Seeing you happy, I mean.”
I let out a soft laugh. “She’d probably roll her eyes and say something like, ‘Finally, Sean, about time someone made you smile like that.’ But yeah… she’d be happy for me. For us.”
Greg nudges me again, softer this time. “Good. Now stop staring at my ass and come eat, will you?”
“I’m… not,” I lie, even as my heart rate picks up. How can he be so calm, so confident, so completely himself while simultaneously making me feel like the luckiest guy alive?
“Uh-huh,” he says, smirking, adjusting his glasses and sticking his meaty ass out. “Keep staring. I like it.”
I chuckle, squeezing his firm butt. “Gods,” I murmur, “how did I get so lucky?”
Greg grins over his shoulder, flipping a waffle with practiced ease. “Wow, you must really love waffles. Noted.”
I laugh again, leaning closer. “No, I mean… you. I was lucky to find you.”
He sets the spatula down, turning to face me fully, a small, shy smile tugging at his lips. “I mean technically, I found you. You were about to strangle your computer into submission, remember?”
He pauses, eyes softening behind his glasses, then leans down and kisses me, slow and deliberate. Not frantic, not rushed. Just us, tangled together in the warm morning light, in the smell of syrup and butter and the faint tang of flour dusting his skin.
I glance at the clock. Ashley’s probably still asleep in her dorm, blissfully unaware that her big brother is wrapped around a gorgeous guy in his tiny kitchen.
I think about how much I’ve tried to hold it all together for her over the years—keeping her organized, helping her study, occasionally bribing her with snacks to get her to do chores or focus on schoolwork.
And now I realize she’s grown up. Or mostly, anyway.
I can let myself be happy. I can have this with Greg, without guilt, without hesitation.
Greg fiddles with the waffle iron like it’s a rogue network switch refusing to cooperate. My fingers trace idle patterns over his arms as he works. “You’re ridiculous,” I murmur, soft and affectionate.
He chuckles. “Yeah, but you’re stuck with me.”
And I smile, thinking about Ashley, about Greg, about how messy, chaotic, absurd life can be—and how, for the first time, I feel like I can handle it all.
The waffles are perfect, golden-brown little discs of heaven, and Greg sets them on the counter like he’s presenting a trophy.
I grab a plate and fork, trying to act casual, while my heart does backflips.
I can’t stop watching him—the way he moves around the tiny kitchen in nothing but his tighty-whities, humming, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, flour sprinkled across his emerald skin.
I dig in, first bite warm and sweet, and can’t resist grinning. “Wow. Okay. These are… life-changing.”
He smirks, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching me like some proud nerdy lion. “I told you. Breakfast-related problem-solving is my specialty.”
I laugh. “I might have to make you cook for me every morning.”
“Might?” he teases, arching an eyebrow. “I like your hesitation.”
I shake my head, smiling into my fork. Then I pause, thinking about Ashley again.
I haven’t been able to check in with her this week—her classes are brutal this semester, a mix of advanced political science and literature.
I know if she needs anything she’ll call, but I still worry.
Always. But knowing I’ve got Greg here, knowing I have someone who makes me feel…
safe, grounded, loved—it makes the weight of it all a little lighter.
“You okay?” Greg asks.
I look up at him, fork halfway to my mouth. “Yeah. Just… thinking about stuff. Work, Ashley, life stuff. You know.”
Greg reaches over and nudges my shoulder with his hand. “Well, lucky for her, she’s got you. And lucky for me, I’ve got you, too.”
We finish the waffles in a comfortable bliss, eating slowly so we can keep talking without rushing.
We joke about how sticky syrup would probably ruin the counter if we weren’t careful, and Greg pretends to analyze the waffle texture like a scientist inspecting an experiment.
I grin at him—geeky, endearing, infuriatingly perfect.
After breakfast, I clear the plates and wash the dishes while Greg dries. He hums a tune under his breath, and the sight of him here, content and domestic, makes my chest swell with love.
When the dishes are done, we settle on the couch, limbs tangled, just holding each other.
I let my head rest on his firm chest and feel his heartbeat under my ear.
I could stay like this forever. The warmth, the closeness, the quiet laughter at nothing in particular—it’s intoxicating.
Honestly, I haven’t felt truly safe, truly at home, since my parents passed. Until now.
Greg shifts slightly, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “I like being here,” he murmurs.
“I like that you’re here,” I reply, fingers threading through his hair.
I smile, heart swelling, and rest back against him. “You’re right. I think Ashley would approve,” I murmur, thinking about my little sister. “Even if she teases me for being a sap.”
We cuddle for a long while. I feel grounded, whole, like I’ve finally found the person who makes all the chaos of my life manageable. With Greg, I can breathe. I can love. I can be ridiculous, flawed—and still be cherished.
By the time we finally pull apart—just enough to get dressed—I feel lighter than I have in months. Maybe years. I glance at Greg, a grin spreading across my face. “So… waffles again tomorrow?”
He grins, adjusting his glasses. “Of course. But I’ll need my waffle iron. Can’t trust anyone else with my perfect settings.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Deal. But only if you promise to keep being your dorky, perfect self while doing it.”
Greg nudges me gently with his hip. “Always. And maybe,” he adds with a playful glint in his eye, “I’ll sneak in a few surprise toppings just to see your face light up.”
I grin, feeling my chest warm. “You’re impossible.”
He smirks, resting his head against mine. “Always.”
And in that quiet, absurd, perfect little moment, I know this is the start of something I’ve never had before. Something steady, messy, warm, and completely mine.
“Okay, now that we’re dressed…” he says.
I smirk. “Let’s fix that.”
He laughs, pulling me close, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Back to bed?”
“Back to bed,” I confirm.
He wraps one solid arm around me, steering us back toward the bed and a day of sex, naps, and absolutely zero productivity.