“It might be wrong, but that mental image is kind of hot,” he told me as he poured some batter into the waffle iron, then added some chocolate chips.

“I get it. Because this is kind of hot,” I told him as I leaned against the counter.

“Don’t look at me like that. This thing only needs to cook for like three minutes. That’s not nearly long enough to get my fill of you.”

“Fineee,” I grumbled. “So, was that really uncomfortable? The talk with Renzo?”

“Not at all. He’s a pretty reasonable guy when he’s not pissed off.”

“To be fair, he’s rarely pissed off. That’s usually reserved for when one of us ignores a direct order.”

“He demands loyalty,” Soren said. “Because he’s your boss. But also because he loves you and to keep you all safe, he needs to know you will obey the rules.”

He really did have Renzo pegged.

“What did he say? You know, about me… leaving?”

“He said he would support it. That he would like to see you having a better life.”

“Better?”

“I think Renzo sees a lot of you, maybe especially you as his kids or little siblings. He knows this is his life and he’s reconciled that for himself and his future. But he wants a different life for you guys, if you want it for yourselves as well.”

“I can see that. But, you know, from a logistical standpoint…”

“He wrapped his head around the computer coding thing a lot faster than you did.”

“Maybe you just explained it better to him,” I teased.

“Don’t. It’s hot,” he tried to warn as I plucked the waffle right off the plate with my fingertips.

“Ow ow ow,” I said as I shoved it into my mouth, scalding hot gooey chocolate chips and all.

“Now, if you would show some restraint,” Soren said, shaking his head, “you would know that those are infinitely better with some powdered sugar on top.”

“I dunno. They’re pretty good without,” I said, mouth opening and closing like a fish to cool off the waffle.

“The strawberry ones are going to have whipped cream. And the blueberries will get syrup.”

“I won’t be waiting for any of that,” I declared, but reached for the powdered sugar he was offering before my next bite. “So… you haven’t changed your mind?”

“I’ve been thinking of that,” he said, making my heart sink. “And I think I can slowly taper you up to liking nutmeg.”

A surprised, choking laugh escaped me.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he agreed, putting down the batter ladle and reaching for my hips instead. “And I will happily reassure you as many times as it takes to make you accept that I haven’t changed my mind. That I’m never going to change my mind.”