The house is quiet, bathed in the soft glow of early morning light filtering through the kitchen windows. Fitz stands at the stove, flipping pancakes, the scent of coffee thick in the air. He's still in his pajama pants, barefoot, comfortable. At peace.
Then Olivia walks in.
Wearing nothing but one of his old ties.
Fitz short-circuits.
The spatula clatters to the counter as his brain completely malfunctions. Olivia leans against the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched in pure mischief.
"Morning," she says smoothly, the corner of her mouth quirking up.
Fitz's mouth opens, then closes. Then opens again. Words? He knows words. He's used them before. But not now. Not when Olivia Pope—his Olivia—is standing in his kitchen looking like that.
She takes a slow step forward, watching him closely, amusement dancing in her eyes. "You okay?"
Fitz runs a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. "Livvie, you're trying to kill me."
She bites her lip, pretending to think. "I mean, if I were, this would be a fun way to go."
He groans, crossing the room in two quick strides, his hands landing on her hips. "You—"
She cuts him off with a kiss, slow and teasing, the silk of his tie brushing against his chest as she presses against him. Fitz grips her tighter, his fingers flexing, his self-control hanging by a thread.
"Breakfast?" she murmurs, lips grazing his jaw.
He huffs a laugh, dropping his forehead against hers. "Absolutely not."
Olivia chuckles, slipping from his grasp and snagging a piece of pancake from the counter. She takes a bite, humming in approval asThe house is quiet, bathed in the soft glow of early morning light filtering through the kitchen windows. Fitz stands at the stove, flipping pancakes, the scent of coffee thick in the air. He's still in his pajama pants, barefoot, comfortable. At peace.
Then Olivia walks in.
Wearing nothing but one of his old ties.
Fitz short-circuits.
The spatula clatters to the counter as his brain completely malfunctions. Olivia leans against the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched in pure mischief.
"Morning," she says smoothly, the corner of her mouth quirking up.
Fitz's mouth opens, then closes. Then opens again. Words? He knows words. He's used them before. But not now. Not when Olivia Pope—his Olivia—is standing in his kitchen looking like that.
She takes a slow step forward, watching him closely, amusement dancing in her eyes. "You okay?"
Fitz runs a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. "Livvie, you're trying to kill me."
She bites her lip, pretending to think. "I mean, if I were, this would be a fun way to go."
He groans, crossing the room in two quick strides, his hands landing on her hips. "You—"
She cuts him off with a kiss, slow and teasing, the silk of his tie brushing against his chest as she presses against him. Fitz grips her tighter, his fingers flexing, his self-control hanging by a thread.
"Breakfast?" she murmurs, lips grazing his jaw.
He huffs a laugh, dropping his forehead against hers. "Absolutely not."
Olivia chuckles, slipping from his grasp and snagging a piece of pancake from the counter. She takes a bite, humming in approval as she heads toward the coffee pot, completely unfazed.
Fitz watches her go, running a hand through his hair, shaking his head.
He is in so much trouble.
And he loves every second of it. She heads toward the coffee pot, completely unfazed.
Fitz watches her go, running a hand through his hair, shaking his head.
He is in so much trouble.
And he loves every second of it.