She likes making him breakfast best.

Lunches are usually out, business meetings for one or the other of them, and dinners are raucous affairs with children and laughter and something spilling everywhere, but weekend breakfasts, when the kids have been up for ages, high on sugary cereal, and poured into the backyard to play at Robin Hood, breakfasts then are just the two of them. Like it used to be, before the children, and Lord knows she doesn't begrudge the children anything, but it's nice, having that quiet time.

When she's up first (they alternate), after she's washed the table from the mess the children leave, she sets the griddle going, and cooks the way her grandma taught her. Saturday breakfasts are hearty meals, filled with eggs and sausages and bacon, and homemade grits.

She turns the pot on, and every weekend, without fail, when the scent of coffee drifts through the house, Kevin pads downstairs in boxers, and wraps his arms around her waist.

"You don't have to cook for me, you know," he murmurs, nuzzling her collarbone, and Britney tells him what she always says, every weekend she's cooked since before they even married.

"If a woman can't cook grits for her man, she ain't hardly worth keeping," she says, pouring his coffee, and every weekend, Kevin kisses the back of her ear, and says he'd keep her anyway. "Well," she says haughtily, a brilliant grin belying the tone of her voice, "you're just lucky we don't have to test that, Mister Richardson."

She adds a teaspoon of sugar and some milk, not enough to dull the flavor, just to turn it brown, but he always stirs it himself. It's the least he can do, he tells her, when she's already gone to such effort.

When it's Kevin's turn, he does the same, and Britney in boxers and one of his button-downs kisses his shoulder blade, and he makes her coffee sweeter, and doesn't let her stir.