I took Zeus to the vet today and it turns out that he had fractured some of his toes on his right foot. It's a pretty common injury, according to the vet, because chihuahuas are so small and people tend to forget they are underfoot.

He's doing all his regular stuff, except...

He has to wear a splint for the next 3 or 4 weeks. And trust me, it's not cheap to keep having to go back and forth to the vet to get it changed. She made me quite aware of the fact. Oh, and so you're wondering, the wrap around the splint is bright yellow.

I took that with my cellphone. It's why it sucks. And he was asleep on the ride home. *lol*

So, he'll be fine just a little awkward looking for a while.

Missed part one? Read it here:  http://pawnshop-heart.xanga.com/717322169/kisu-part-one/

I almost shiver when the tender heat radiating from his lips brush mine, teasingly denying me the kiss I want. Holding it together is hard but I make it somewhat better by stepping back from him. If he's not touching me then, surely, whatever hold he has will be gone. My logic is eternally flawed in this way. I am still close enough that, if I bring my gaze up from my socks, my hazel eyes will meet his dark ones.

He reaches out to me. I watch with brightening cheeks as the side of his index finger and pad of his thumb catch the zipper tab on my hoodie. His thumb slides over the black metal slowly. No noise is made when he drags the tab down just one notch.

His hand drops from the zipper, not bothering to even glide down the stripes of black and red material.

"Sustenance," he grins as he turns his attention to the coffee and cake on the counter. "You're a pretty distraction but it won't work today. Sorry. Too hungry."

The breath he made me catch is released when he opens the cutlery drawer. There is a misguided sense of happiness swelling inside me that I misplaced his controller for the PS3 when he actually cuts into the cake. He wouldn't use mine. It's covered in Hello Kitty stickers. Sure, he almost had a mental breakdown when he saw the 'abomination' but it will act as a deterent when he goes to start it up.

I push my sleeves up to my elbows. He sits at the table with his cake and full coffee mug. Why would I bother with my own mug when the taste I really want is creating itself against his lips?

"No," he says against the rim of his mug.

"What, the cake's not good," I ask, leaning back against the counter.

"No, it's pure excellence," he pushes the empty plate away from him. "It's a 'no' to whatever your devious mind is trying to plot. If I want something off you, I'll take it off myself. Until then, sit and drink your coffee. I didn't bring it over to be ignored."

Every thought freezes in mid-action as if someone pressed the 'pause' button on a questionably rated DVD. Perhaps it would suit us both better having him remove items with greedy fingers instead of having me be overeager as usual.

(Yeah, it's short. Sorry. I am totally digging writing this in shorter pieces though instead of one long post. Plus, I have to be mindful of the characters. Part #3 should be longer and, hopefully, up tomorrow night. That is, providing, I can write while watching "House", "Two and a Half Men" and "The Big Bang Theory".)

(Edited upon request)

What a boring morning. Not even the birds can find it within themselves to make a single bit of noise outside my window. Perfect quiet is rarely a comfort, especially on days like this one. The air is chilled and the sidewalk in front of my house is littered with fallen sakura, making the house appear far more quaint than it actually is.

If not for the notes of bubbling cinnamon and sugar streaming from the oven, I wouldn't have believed for myself I were in my own home. Lots of small things had changed around the space in the course of a few weeks. A new black coffee mug sat next to mine in the cabinet above the sink, a longer pair of blue Converse sat beside the pink ones by the door and I find myself missing his general oddity when there is silence.

He is in love with the coffee he makes. As for me, just the taste of it coating his lips is enough. It's become quite the addiction. He swears I lure him over with chocolate pasteries and Playstation then trap him into staying by leaving the zipper of my hoodie just low enough to show off the tattoos he likes on my chest.

It's not as if he doesn't do things that effect me in the same manner. His are less deliberate. The shirt I complimented him on, the one in the shade of toasted almonds that looks so perfect against the tone of his smooth skin, is his favorite. He wears it every chance he gets. Heaven forbid it ever becomes stained. It's become such a part of him that the scent of his sweat and cologne have become weaved in the fibers.

I asked him here today on the exact premise I have before, to test a new cake. Bakers need test subjects and no male under the sun is going to pass up the chance to be first at something. It's their adorable egos. The first man to walk on the moon. The first man to discover fire. The first man to skip a rock 15 times across a pond. They'll brag about almost anything if they believe it will impress the pants off a woman.

He is no exception. My gaze catches his arrival. He doesn't know it but he looks gorgeous among the pink in his worn in jeans and black hoodie over the shirt I just knew he was going to wear. The way he tosses his head back to shake dark strands of hair from his eyes makes me bite my lip. I am almost thankful he never takes the time to ring the doorbell. Beyond knowing he's comfortable here, thoughts of what I'd do to him wouldn't allow me to move.

"Woman," he calls from the livingroom, wrestling off his outerwear. "I brought you coffee to ruin with sugar and cream. Is what I smell the cake you promised?"

"No, it's the bread I'm making for my secret lover, Diego. Yours is just rye and boring," I joke with him.

"Then I'm leaving," he announces, making a fuss with his hoodie to make it seem like he's pulling it back on.

"Like you'd seriously walk out on treats," I scoff.

His hand smooths out the simple t-shirt he wears as he steps into my kitchen. Stray pink leaves scatter across the spotless kitchen floor. I consider, for a moment, telling him he'll need to sweep them up but the way he looks when he pushes his hair from his eyes makes me automatically forgive him. 

"I could," he draws out, inspecting the cinnamon bundt cake on the counter. "However, I wouldn't."

The thermos of coffee he brought gets placed next to the cake. In all honesty, I couldn't care less if he eats now or not. It works just as well for breakfast as it does dessert. Perhaps the idea has flashed inside his mind. From the way his gaze dart from the placement of my hoodie's zipper tab to my eyes tells me, for sure, it has.

I expect there to be a verbal questioning of whether or not it's acceptable to make his move. There is none. The pads of his thumbs stroke over the curve of my chin on their way to rest against the one of my lower lip. Gentle nails from the fingers that rest on the back of my head stroke lightly over my scalp.

"Did you taste the batter," he whispers, bringing the tip of his nose to nuzzle into my orange scented hair.

Nodding, I try to look up at him. The difference in height isn't much but it's enough to give him an advantage. His breath is warm, the softness of his lips is revealed to me when they press against my forehead.

"Was it sweet," he asks in the same whisper just before his lips touch my right cheek. "You don't have to answer that. I already know the answer."

I almost shiver when the tender heat radiating from his lips brush mine, teasingly denying me the kiss I want need.