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There’s something poppy playing low through the speaker on the counter, overlaid by a sizzle that Noah assumes is bacon. As he rounds the corner from the hallway into the kitchen he catches the words of the song, a Beyoncé staple on Dan’s cooking playlist.
Dan is at the stove, poking at a frying pan with a spatula. He’s wearing one of the oven mitts Clare bought him for Christmas, as a gag, with fancy script that says “fold in the cheese” on it, and singing under his breath. Clare isn’t anywhere to be seen, so she’s either in the shower or on a run.
“Hey,” Dan says, peeking back over his shoulder as Noah comes closer, floorboards creaking under his bare feet. Noah presses right up to Dan’s back, arms snaking around his middle. He gets one hand up under the hem of the white tee Dan is wearing, which Noah thinks is one of his own.
“Mornin’,” Noah murmurs, lips brushing skin-warm, washed-thin cotton as he tucks his face down onto Dan’s shoulder. He closes his eyes to really take in the feeling of Dan in his arms, the planes of his back against Noah’s chest, the way he fits closer into the curve of Noah’s body as Dan shifts his weight from one fuzzy-socked foot to the other. With his eyes closed he can focus more closely on what he’s hearing and smelling too, the faded spice of Dan’s night cream, the rising pace and volume of Dan’s heartbeat as Noah fumbles a hand under the hem of his shirt and up onto the sensitive skin of his lower belly.
“Good morning,” Dan says, in that low tone of voice that always manages to convey a complicated mixture of affection and shyness with a hint of a tease. There’s an exaggerated sizzle that must mean he’s flipping the bacon in the pan. Noah pries his still-sleepy eyes open to check on the progress, because Dan has varied success with getting bacon the right amount of crispy. It looks good, curling up at the edges and browning without being too brown. Noah gives it his silent stamp of approval, tilting his head against Dan’s shoulder to look at him instead.
From this angle he has a high-def view of the stubble shadowing Dan’s jaw, the curled up corner of his mouth, and lush curve of his eyelashes as he blinks down at his work. And the messy bedhead that Dan doesn’t bother fixing anymore, comfortable now with Noah and Clare seeing him in all of his messiest states. One particularly frizzy lock is standing up just above his temple, right where Dan always rubs his face into his pillow while he’s sleeping, and Noah can’t help but grin at it.
“Look how gray you’re getting,” he says, and Dan’s whole body jerks in Noah’s arms.
“Excuse me?” Dan says, voice definitely less shy now and more affronted.
“You’ve got a streak coming in.”
Under Noah’s hand, the muscles in Dan’s stomach tense and relax, as if he’s fighting his instinct to run for a mirror. Noah squeezes him tighter, and presses an open mouth kiss to the side of Dan’s neck. He lets it linger, touches the skin there just briefly with his tongue, and scratches through the hair under Dan’s navel. His muscles contract again, this time accompanied by a sharp inhalation of breath.
“Don’t try to distract me from that insult with your—” Noah sucks lightly at the skin under his mouth, and Dan undulates with a shiver against him. “Your mouth,” Dan finishes weakly, belying his words by tilting his head to give Noah more room.
“Guys,” comes Clare’s voice from the doorway. Noah doesn’t stop what he’s doing, but Dan’s neck stretches under Noah’s tongue as he turns to look at her. “You’re going to burn the bacon.”
Her sneakers squeak on the floor as she comes closer—so she was out for a run—and then her hand is on Noah’s shoulder. He finally lets up on Dan’s skin, admiring the red spot he’s leaving behind before meeting Clare’s eyes. She’s smirking, sweat dampening the collar of her tank top and making her face shine in the overhead lights. Dan huffs, and Noah hears the spatula scraping the pan.
“It’s not burnt,” he grumbles. Noah slides the hand under Dan’s shirt up until he can tweak one of Dan’s nipples. He can feel it jolt through Dan’s body, and Clare’s smirk gets even wider. “You deserve burnt bacon,” Dan says through new roughness in his voice. “Calling me gray.”
“What, are you just now noticing?” Clare asks. Noah doesn’t need to see Dan’s face to know the betrayed expression he’s turning on Clare. He can tell exactly how ridiculous it must be from the glint in her eye. She reaches out to smooth the frizzed silver hairs, attempting to tuck them into the darker mass of Dan’s waves.
“I hate you both.”
“Mmhm,” Clare hums, unconvinced. “You know he rhapsodizes about how hot you are, like, hourly, right? Silver hair and all.”
Dan huffs again, but he presses back against Noah with a suggestive wiggle of his hips. “Yeah, yeah. Go take a shower so we can eat.”
Clare’s laugh floats behind her as she turns away to do just that. Noah hooks his chin over Dan’s shoulder to double check that the bacon isn’t burnt, just in time to see Dan flick the burner off. Then he’s twisting in Noah’s arms, breaking Noah’s hold and getting one of his own, hands tight on Noah’s hips until Noah is backed up against the island.
“You think I’m hot, huh?” Dan’s grin is predatory, his fingers vice-like, and Noah gets so hard so fast it makes him dizzy.
By the time Clare returns from her shower, Dan and Noah both need one. She rolls her eyes fondly and sends them off, but not before Noah snags a piece of bacon from the pan.
It’s perfect.