"Petal, what're you up to?" Niall was unable to hide his smirk at your frantic scurrying around the house. He would be lying if he said he was not the slightest bit envious at your constant motion. Since the injury of his foot, the boot (while lighter than he thought it would be) still managed to keep him anchored throughout the following weeks. Hobbling around became quite a nuisance, and he felt guilty by your constant offers to help him with mundane tasks.
"Nothing," you squeak, but your glowing red cheeks gave you away instantly. Niall tilts his head and raises his brows; the two simple motions he knew would make you vulnerable at an instant.
"Fine." Huffing, you cross your arms over your chest and spare a glance down at your shifting, sock-clad feet. They were actually Niall's socks, an obvious factor being the ornate pattern they held and how loosely they hugged your feet. The cotton supposed to be embracing your ankle was scrunched but still made you feel a sense of home inside of you, a feeling your no-show socks could never offer. "I wanted to make you dinner and stuff like you always do for me. I asked your mom and she sent over the recipe to one of your favorite meals back home." You stammer, clasping your hands against one another and absentmindedly twisting them about. "She said it's all you ate when you went and got the knee surgery done." Niall craned his neck back towards the golf match taking place on his television screen, before heaving his body off of the couch cushion and waddling over to you.
"That's very sweet of you princess." Niall chuckles, rounding the couch and coming to stand before you. He picks your chin up with his fingers in a delicate manner and combs back the few strands of hair curtaining your face. "But it's not necessary." He reminds.
"I know that," Your answer comes in a mumble and shrug, "but can you blame me for wanting to wine and dine you? You deserve it."
"Well, I appreciate it." He spares a fond smile. You nod towards the other room, where the small dining table sat and offered your arm to Niall for stability. "So, what's on the menu tonight, chef Y/N?"
"You'll know it when you smell it." The corners of your lips rise as you arrive at one of the dining room chairs. Similar to Niall on most nights, you slide the chair from beneath the table for him to sit down.
"Wow," he raises his eyebrows and turns his impressed stare towards you. "I'm getting treated tonight." His teasing leaves you red once again, and in addition, a proud feeling swarming your insides. When he takes a seat in the wooden piece of furniture you attempt to slide it towards the table but are challenged by the new weight. While Niall was bulkier than you and now had an unexpected addition of weight with the boot, it was not in your plans to struggle in returning him to the table.
"Need help?" He inquires, noticing the quaking of your biceps and sounds of your heavy breaths.
"No." You choke out, assuring him, "I got it. I just gotta—" Your eyes trail down from his devilish smirk to his feet, fixated against the floor to the house. Letting out an impatient breath, you send him a frustrated glare.
"Asshole." And on your march to the kitchen, Niall's laughter shadowed you the entire way.
