He began walking towards me, and with each step his lips lifted into a joyful smile, his t-shirt and jeans all rumpled from slumber, but still managing to look like a Calvin Klein model. When he reached the kitchen island, he glanced down and spotted the calorific feast. “What's all this?”

“This, my good friend, is a celebration of my cracking hormone stability and your stellar care-giving skills. I hope you’re not watching your figure, Hollywood, as this may seriously add a few pounds!”

He moved back from the island, a cheeky, shit-eating grin on his face and lifted his tight white tee to his chest, displaying his ripped abs and swirling black tattoo. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be okay just this once, what do you think?” he said with a c**k of his head.

Holy f**k! What do I think? Sheesh! I want to scrap the fry-up and nibble down on every tasty morsel of that muscle-laden smorgasbord! That’s not a six pack, that’s a friggin’ brewery, and this girl’s game for a piss up!

I tried to focus and picked up the spatula that I had dropped at the impromptu brawn peep-show, and managed to mumble, “Erm…yeah I think you’ll be okay just this once.”

I was blushing furiously, my face – and other unmentionable places – on fire!

Tudor smirked and let his T-shirt drop, knowing full well what he had just done to me. I very nearly pole-vaulted the breakfast bar to stop the material from falling back into place, but I thought it might look a bit too eager, and I wasn’t confident that the wooden spoon in the pan of baked beans would give me enough spring action to clear the necessary height.

Tudor began chuckling at my loss of composure. I guessed I wasn’t the first victim of the ‘ab attack’.

I cleared my throat, removed my apron and instructed, “Right, take your plate and have a seat. The food is getting cold.”

“Yes, sir!” he mock-saluted.

I walked past and heard a quick, sharp inhale. I turned around to find Tudor staring at my arse.

“Hey! I’m up here, pervert!” I scolded.

His eyes shot up to mine, his expression guilty. “Sorry, Sunshine. I-I like the shorts. Really like the shorts,” he murmured under his breath.

“What?” I asked, not quite sure I had heard him correctly.

He smiled. “I said this looks nice.” He lifted the plate of food to his nose and sniffed. “Yum!”

We tucked into breakfast, both feeling much happier at the fact that I’d recovered. I sent a quick text to the Tinkster letting him know I was feeling better, poured out two cups of post-fry-up ristratto coffee and moved to the couch to chill, with Tudor in tow. We settled in and I switched the TV on, lowering the volume so we could chat.

I took a sip of my java. “So…”

He tipped his head to the side, and smirked. “So?”

“So, I was just thinking, now that I’m better, you’re free to go back home.”

His face fell, and he took a long sip from his cup. He placed his mug on the coffee table, and rubbed his hands together, “I suppose you’re right. I should get out of your hair, you’re probably sick of me.”

I put a hand on his shoulder. “No I didn’t mean you have to go. I just thought that you would want to… I like you being here with me.”

He visibly relaxed and peeked up at me shyly. “I don’t mind hanging around, you know, just to make sure you’re alright today.”

I felt the butterflies in my stomach again. I think they had just taken acid.

I nodded and smiled. “I’d like that.”

He picked up his coffee and settled back onto the couch. We sat in comfortable silence, both catching glimpses of each other staring at the other, causing us to burst out laughing.

He patted the arm of the couch. “Okay, I’m going to get a shower. I won’t be long. We’ll have a movie duvet day after that if you want?”

I scrunched my face up.

“What?” he asked frowning.

“I’ve been cooped up in here for days. Do you fancy a walk somewhere instead?”

He rubbed his lips together. “Yeah okay. Give me ten minutes. I know just the place.”

Tudor made his way to the shower, and I tried very hard not to visualise him naked and wet in my bathroom, using my loofah in those hard-to-clean areas.

To distract my mucky mind, I picked up all the dirty cups and plates instead and began loading the dishwasher. I cleaned the countertops until they were sparkling, and by the time I was done, Tudor was walking out of my bedroom, stretching his arms over his head, looking like the living, breathing Canadian version of King Leonidas from 300 – completely unaware of me, frozen in place and drooling. This is Sparta!

I quickly shook my head clear of my wanton thoughts and began putting away the cleaning supplies. As Tudor walked by the TV area, my phone started ringing from its place on the coffee table.

“Tude, would you answer my phone please? It’s probably Tink calling for another update.”

“Sure, no problem,” he saluted, and answered the phone on the third ring.

I quickly washed my hands to remove the scent of antiseptic, and I heard Tudor’s voice turn ice cold, “Yes she’s here. I’ll just put her on.”

I turned towards him, his face was rigid in anger, jaw clenching, holding out my phone.

I swallowed apprehensively and held out my hand. “What?”

He thrust the phone towards me, exhaling harshly. “It’s Gage.”