“I want pancakes.”

“What? Right now?”

“No. For breakfast.”

“Oh.” He yawned. “You’d better get up early then.”

“Me? I’m not going to make them.”

“Yeah?” His sleepy voice carried mock sympathy. “Who’s going to make them for you then?”

“You are.”

“Am I? You think I’m going to make you pancakes? Is that how you think it’s going to be?"

"You’re so good at,” I whined. “Besides, if you do, I’ll sit on the counter in a short robe while you cook.”

His soft laughter segued into another yawn. “Oh. Well then.” He kissed my ear again. “Maybe I’ll make you pancakes.”