“You have needs. You’re not a robot.” How could he say that?

“Of course I have needs.” He smirked. “I’m not a monk.”

“That is not what I meant, and you know it.” I shook the spatula at him and that stupid little smirk.

“I’ll start some toast.”

And now my heart was… Nope! I was cold, hard, refrigerator butter.

That Cam was now unwrapping and putting on a butter dish, that was okay. Still cold. Still hard. Still not— “What are you doing?”

He shut the microwave and looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Relax, Pika. I’m just softening the butter.”

My eyes flew wide.

“For toast,” he continued slowly. “Okay? Did you have other plans for it?”

“Of course not. It’s butter,” I said and flipped his omelet to finish it. I cringed when the microwave started. “You know I’m not a little rodent anymore, right?” I quasi-snapped, reaching around him for a plate.

“What?” he questioned, putting bread into the toaster. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I answered quickly, sliding his breakfast onto the plate. “You still call me Pika sometimes.” Just like he had since, well, forever.

The microwave beeped, and Cam took out the butter. There was a divot in the center, complete with a little puddle of melted butter. Ugh.

I started my omelet. Maybe once I was fed, I wouldn’t be so weirdly emotional. Wanting to first run my fingers along his neck, then strangle him had to be a by-product of being hangry.

“I’ve always called you Pika.”

“Right. But I’m not a bucktoothed little kid with big ears anymore.” I evened out the egg and added my fillings.

He laughed, loud and genuine, and my stomach fluttered in hunger pangs. “You think that’s why I call you Pika? Is that really what you believe?”

Warmth flushed my cheeks, and I knew it wasn’t from the heat of the pan. Great. Now I was turning red.

“Well, yeah. Why else would you call a girl who’s basically raised as your little sister a rodent?” I knew it had been a kind of endearment from him. Pet names weren’t something that he did, so the fact that I’d had one—and still did—meant something. But Cam had always said he was free to torture me but no one else was allowed to.

It was the same thing he’d said about Sullivan.

I folded my omelet as I heard the first toast pop up. Then the scrape of that softened butter.

“Look at me,” he ordered, his voice all gravelly and deep.

I did, arching an eyebrow to hopefully keep him clueless about how absolutely flustered he had me.