Disclaimer: As much as I wish I did, I do not own these characters or this show.
You'd only rolled out of bed to get a cup of coffee. Now, you are silent, frozen on the last step as you watch her. You can't tell what Holly's doing exactly, but she's in the kitchen with her back to you. Music is playing from the living room, something with beat and completely out of date. That doesn't faze her though. Her pajama pants drag along the floor as she shuffles her feet with the rhythm, bobbing her head in time. You watch those beautiful locks of dark hair glint as the morning sun filters in.
She must be cooking, you conclude, as she turns back to the stove. The faintest sizzle can be heard underneath the melody filling the room. She's singing along now. You try not to laugh. She's terrible. You both know it. She can never quite hit the notes, despite how hard she tries. Even then, there's something about her singing that floods your chest with warmth. Maybe it's the fact that she doesn't care how it sounds, that she just sings because she wants to, and you admire that. Spatula in hand, she gives it her all when the chorus comes around, and the music crescendos just as your heartbeat does. You love her. It's the first time you admit it, but you know you love her in that exact moment. It doesn't scare you like you thought it would. That silent confession nestles itself at the base of your skull, you can feel it pulling at your lips and spreading heat across your cheeks.
She's dancing now, a dish cloth slung over her shoulder as she moves her hips to the best of her ability, the result is not the most coordinated dance move you've ever seen. It doesn't lessen your affection. If anything, it makes you love her more to know that her dance moves are as awkward, but still as well-intentioned, as her run-on sentences and bouts of word vomit. You know you're grinning from ear-to-ear now. You can't help it. Her energy is infectious, part of you wants to join her, to go to her, pull her close and show her how to roll her hips with the music. Most of you is content just watching, feeling the swell of love in your chest, your gut, your spine. Feel the raging fire beneath your skin consume you.
In the midst of a turn, she spots you. It's not a turn so much as a hop, skip, and a swivel. She stops abruptly, wide-eyed and embarrassed, with her hands paused midair. "Reenacting our dance party last week?" you ask. That was a great night. You'd been too wired to sleep, so she invited you around. The two of you had danced into the wee hours of the morning, laughing, teasing, and acting out as many music videos as you could remember. You approach her with a genuine smile, letting her know she doesn't have to be embarrassed and she finally relaxes. "Maybe," she turns back to, what you now identify as pancakes, "but I can't do it all of my own," she replies with a smirk.
Your hands find her waist without thinking about it, as you bury your nose in the back of her shirt. You laugh. "Especially not that last part," you say. Laughter ripples through her; you can feel it beneath your fingers and against your face. Her shirt bunches in your hand as she turns to face you, stepping into you, forcing you back against the island. "That 'last part', huh?" she says, with a suggestive wiggle of her eyebrows.
You know exactly what she means. "I thought you were making pancakes."
"Pancakes can wait."
Author's Note: Big thanks to my lovely girlfriend who is, as always, my favourite proofreader, and a shout out to Céc who supplied me with the idea for the 'dance party' line (doctor-of-asskicking on tumblr, look her up).
