(Camden's POV)

I had to have punched Jesus in a past life. That's the only explanation I have for the epically karmic throbbing in my head right now. Clearly I can't handle my liquor as well as I thought. 

I power through the sharp pain I feel when I open my eyes and slowly sit up. On my nightstand is a glass of water and two Tylenol. I smile slightly before swallowing the little pills and chugging back the water. 

Oliver is still looking out for me after all these years. 

I'm sure he's probably already left so I take my time getting ready. I take another shower, hoping it'll calm the uneasy feeling in my stomach. I feel a lot better when I step out. 

The Tylenol kicks in, working wonders for my migraine, but the uneasy feeling is replaced with growing hunger. I didn't eat all day yesterday, and the bottle's worth of liquor sloshing around in my stomach right now certainly isn't doing me any favors. 

After I put on some black leggings and a plain white t-shirt, I make my way downstairs to feed myself. For a moment I swear I smell breakfast even though I know it's impossible. I'm convinced it must just be my hunger eating away at my sanity. 

When I round the corner to the kitchen, I'm stunned. I stop short at the sight in front of me. Oliver is in my kitchen, in nothing but boxer briefs, flipping pancakes. In the back of my mind, I'm aware that my mouth is hanging wide open and I probably look like an idiot, but I can't seem to get my brain to work enough to close it. 

"Do you plan on sitting, Camden, or should I feed you standing up?" He asks. 

He doesn't even bother turning around, so I'm assuming he just felt my hovering presence behind him. 

I open and close my mouth a few more times, trying to form a coherent sentence. Unable to think of anything, I silently sit in the same spot I sat in last night, only this time, there's an empty plate, silverware, and a steaming cup of black coffee in front of me. 

I take a sip, reveling in the scalding liquid as it slides down the back of my throat. It's heaven in a cup. Oliver doesn't say anything else and neither do I. I just watch him as he flips, captivated by the way his muscles in his back tense and tighten with the motion. 

He starts to pile all of my favorite breakfast foods onto my plate. Blueberry pancakes, home fried potatoes, and bacon stacked artfully in front of me. I smile brightly at his thoughtfulness, shocked that he even remembered such a small detail. 

"Thank you," I beam at him. 

He answers with a rare full smile of his own that leaves me a little breathless. 

"Dig in before it gets cold."

Without protest, I start shoveling everything into my mouth. I can't help the sigh that escapes my lips when I bite into my pancake and close my eyes in near ecstasy. I love the way the pockets of hot blueberry melt on my tongue. 

Oliver finally sits down next to me with a plate of his own, but he eats with much more finesse, cutting everything up into small bites and eating it all according to food group. Nothing on his plate touches each other. 

I stare at him curiously from the corner of my eye. 

"Can I help you?" He asks. 

"Why do you eat like you're being punished?" I respond, my mouth still full of potatoes. 

"It's less messy and I can actually taste all my food without the flavors getting all mixed up. Why do you eat like you haven't had food in weeks?"

"This food was meant to be all mixed up, Ollie! The sweetness of the pancakes combined with the saltiness of the bacon is just..." I finish my proclamation with a dramatic chef's kiss. 

He shakes his head at me, but the corners of his lips are turned up slightly. 

"I'm glad to see your rather passionate affection for food hasn't changed, Cammie," he laughs. 

My cheeks flush as I take a sip of my coffee. I love when he calls me Cammie. I feel like I earned his affection when he uses my nickname. Like I unlocked a secret playful side of him that no one else gets to see. It's like a side of him reserved only for me. 

I hope getting close to him again isn't a mistake.