My Valentine

Twelve

Nightingale Phillips

My sense of smell had always been amazing. I thought it was a rare quality, but my mother hated it. Maybe it was because I was always the first person to get to the kitchen when the food she'd slaved over was ready...I don't know.

On Saturday morning when I woke up, I was a bit disoriented at first. I was in this large darkened room with my arm wrapped around a pillow.

I was getting used to Marshall's small guestroom which was always brightly lit because of the thin curtains and the fact that I always left the windows open when I went to bed.

Marshall's bedroom was a whole other story. His curtains were thick and his windows were always closed. The dude had a door as opposed to my broken one.
Waking up in his room was like falling asleep in the back of a library and being locked inside for the night.

The shelves lining the walls of the room gave it an impersonal feel. I didn't see not one picture of his wife or Brooklyn. There were just bookshelves, a desk, a leather loveseat and a very comfy bed.
I released the pillow and used my elbows to support my weight.

Why had he given me a pillow to hold anyway?

Just like that, the aroma of strawberries mixed with blueberries seeped its way through the walls of the older man's bedroom walls.

Was that?

No it couldn't be...

I sniffed twice.

Was he making straw-blueberry pancakes!

Oh my favourite! Only my family knew of my love for the two flavours in one pancake.
Tammy thought it was 'nasty'. I forced her to try it the last time we had a sleep over - she almost threw up.

I pressed my face against the pillow he slept on and deeply inhaled his unusual scent of pineapples and Brooklyn's baby powder before I pushed the covers off me and quivered at the cold air that hit my bare legs. I ignored my fluffy bunny bed slippers and walked across the room to his door.

On my way downstairs, I heard Brooklyn singing the Paw Patrol theme song.
When I got to the entrance of the kitchen, I almost swooned at what I saw.

A shirtless Mr. Valentine held his son in one arm and was using a spachula with his free hand to flip something that was making a sizzling sound. His broad, muscular back was turned to me and I got a good view of his tattoo. It was a uniquely styled Cross with a dragon breathing fire out of its mouth wrapped around it. It was positioned on his upper back; the part that flexed when he flipped...whatever he was flipping.

It smelled like pancakes though.

Brooklyn laid his head on Marshall's shoulder, finally shutting up.

"Still tired Brook?" He softly asked, kissing the boy on top of his head.

The little boy didn't answer.

"When do you think Birdie'll wake up?"

"I dunno," Brooklyn raised his head to look directly at his father, no longer sleepy at the thought of me waking up and being able to play with him.

"I feel you staring at me, you know," he spoke.

How the hell did he...?

"Good morning," I greeted them both, walking into the room and grabbing a stool.
He turned around with  a plate of pancakes in his hands.

"I believe you call them straw-blueberry pancakes," He smiled shyly at me setting the plate down on the island. How could I not stare at his perfection?