“Eat up,” the man instructed.

Micah didn’t need to be told twice. He scooped a generous amount of cream atop his first crepe, sprinkled it with berries, and forked a piece of it in his mouth.

Then he fought the urge to moan aloud.

It was like a thin, crispy piece of pancake, that should have been too sweet with the cream and fruit, but somehow wasn’t. “I know you told me you like baking, but holy. You know, if being a billionaire doesn’t work out, you have some serious skills to fall back on.”

Damon snorted. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, waving off the compliment.

“Seriously, I’ve never been so happy to have some guy so obsessed with feeding me.” For some reason, his mind decided to torment Micah by reminding him how he’d attempted to eat Damon the night before, a picture of him mouthing at the man’s clothed dick flashing through his mind. “Food, I mean, obviously,” he added unnecessarily. “Not, you know…”

Luckily, Damon didn’t seem to know. In fact, he seemed distracted by something on Micah’s face – his mouth, to be specific.

His heart rate absolutely did not ramp up.

“What?” Micah blurted.

“Nothing, you just have a bit of cream-”

“Oh!” Micah quickly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling like an idiot. Of course, Damon wasn’t staring at his lips because he wanted to kiss him. Micah was just a slob. “Did I get it?”

He wasn’t wholly prepared for Damon to take him by the chin and thumb the corner of his mouth, running it along his bottom lip. “Got it.”

Fuck.

Micah quickly tore his face out of Damon’s hand, forking another piece of crepe into his mouth like the uncultured trash he was before an… unfortunate situation could develop in his pants.

A semi-awkward silence fell.

Micah cleared his throat. “So-”

“What do you-?” Damon attempted at the same time.

“You first,” Micah insisted, plopping a strawberry in his mouth before Damon could object.

Damon eyed him critically. “I was just going to ask what you remembered about last night. You were a little…” he trailed off.

“Plastered?” Micah offered.

Damon’s lips twitched. “I was going to say out of it.”

“Yeah, well, tequila is not my friend.”

Damon hummed. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be accepting shots of it from strangers then.”

Micah frowned. “Are you scolding me?” he demanded.

“No,” Damon denied, the liar. “I just can’t help but notice you have a habit of making questionable decisions-”

Damon didn’t know the half of it.

“-especially those regarding your safety. What if that guy had done something to your drink? Or what if you were so inebriated, you decided to go home with him? He could have hurt you.”

Micah had a choice: he could get annoyed at the man’s domineering attitude, or he could recognize that, for whatever reason, it was coming from a place of genuine concern. “Well, I didn’t go home with him, did I?” he reminded the man lightly, deciding to go with option two – for now. “I went home with you.”