You closed your book, finding that you were unable to focus. Your boyfriend, Matthew, was ten minutes late. He had told you that he was going to return home directly after the World Conference, and it wasn't like him to be late. Well, you thought, a slight smile gracing your face. Not usually, anyway.
You remembered the morning where you had been abruptly awoken by his shocked gasp. Apparently, his alarm clock hadn't gone off, and he was going to be late to a G8 meeting. After giving you a quick, parting kiss on the cheek, he rushed downstairs to get ready. You recalled how frustrated you had been: not only had it been far too early in the morning for your liking, but now you were longing for the Canadian's warmth. Pulling the blankets up over your neck, you had tried to get back to sleep to the best of your ability, only to fail and end up getting out of bed yourself.
Now, you glanced worriedly up at the clock before shifting your gaze to the door, almost as if you could make him appear by yourself. Releasing an irritated sigh, you placed your book to your side before getting off of the couch. Well, if your moose-loving, peacekeeping boyfriend wasn't going to be home on time, there was no point in you sitting by the door waiting for him to arrive. Might as well do something productive.
Finding your way to the kitchen, you decided on making pancakes. Yes, that was more of Matthew's forte, but you felt a small ache in your stomach, most likely because you had originally wanted to wait until the Canadian's return to eat dinner. Fidgeting around the kitchen, you tried to recall how he prepared them, and with a shrug of your shoulders, you gathered flour, baking powder, salt, and sugar before heading towards the fridge for the rest of the ingredients.
After nearly dropping the bag of milk, you managed to mix together the pancake batter. "Why can't he just pour milk from bottles or jugs?" you hissed, fetching a measuring cup and the griddle. Well, if Matthew could deal with the odd container, then so could you. Placing the griddle over the oven's burner, you poured out a proper amount of batter.
At the sudden sound of your name, you nearly dropped the measuring cup before whipping around to see Matthew, sheepishly smiling at you. "God, I thought someone had broken in. Don't do that!"
A hurt look appeared in his violet eyes. "Don't do what? I'm sorry, (Name). I, um...I came in a few minutes ago. I guess you didn't hear me call your name," he mused softly.
Now how were you supposed to resist that face? "No, I didn't hear you. Sorry I snapped at you. I just got worried, you know? You weren't home, so," you trailed off.
"Oh!" he suddenly exclaimed, raising one of his arms to show you a plastic bag. "Right, desole!" You couldn't help but smile at his use of French. "I got us poutine! You know, like Québécois people eat," he told you, setting the bag down on the counter behind you. "That's okay, right?"
You let a relieved sigh escape your lips, to which Matthew raised a confused eyebrow. "Yes, that's okay, Matthew," you repeated. "I'm just glad that you're home." Stepping closer to him, you wrapped your arms around his neck before placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. "How was the conference?"
"Oh, yes, it was fine," he replied, tentatively reaching out to lightly stroke your cheek. "It went as it usually did. Alfred was energetic and thought of a bunch of strange plans to fix our economies. Arthur drank some tea and criticized everything. Ivan and Yao kind of just stayed quiet, but Papa said hello to me!"
You couldn't help but giggle at how excited he sounded. "Well, that's good," you said cheerfully, leaning forward to press your lips against his. A bit surprised, he went to move away from shock, but you swiftly grabbed his tie. Quickly relaxing into the kiss, he carefully wrapped his arms around you waist, rubbing your lower back.
At this point, you broke the kiss, peppering lighter pecks down his jaw until you reached his neck. "I love you," you murmured, running your fingers down his neck.
He shuddered at your touch. "I know you do, (Name). Sometimes I wonder why," he admitted, averting his gaze from you.
You paused, reaching to cup his cheeks as you turned him to face you. "What do you mean?" you asked, confused.
"Oh, no, it's not your fault!" he apologized. "It's just that...well, you know, you're so beautiful." At these words, he slowly massaged the small of your back. "And just...there's something about you that makes me want to keep you safe; to protect you. You're special, (Name), and you deserve far better than just some ordinary guy like me."
"Matthew Williams," you suddenly said, your voice stern. "I don't want you to ever say such a thing again. You are perhaps the sweetest person I have ever met, and I can't believe how lucky I am that we're together. Who do you think is 'better' than you? Alfred?"
He hesitated to respond, so you decided to ask him another question as you returned to kissing his neck. "Would Alfred bring me home poutine?"
"Well, probably n-not," Matthew chuckled. "But he might bring you some other type of fast food."
"Just be quiet," you instructed him, running your hands up into his wavy blonde hair. Oh, how you loved him, and if he didn't believe it when you told him, then you'd show him exactly how much you loved him. You listened to his soft mewls as you continued on your delicate treatment of his neck, before-
"Hush, Matthew. Don't you like this?" you asked, your voice faint as you pulled on his shirt once again.
"Ah, well...I d-do, but your pancakes are burning."
"What!?" Quickly, you removed yourself from your boyfriend, blushing as you turned off the oven's burner. Your "pancake" now resembled a flattened hockey puck: black and inedible. Sighing, you looked over your shoulder at Matthew, who had a sympathetic smile.
"It's a good thing that I got the poutine, eh?"