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"Did you just call that spatula a bloody wanker?" Erik asks, carefully evading a cracked egg or two to get to Charles.
"Well, in my defense-"
Erik slides up behind him and snakes his arms around his waist, leaning in to kiss the dimple on his right cheek before he can start an argument about what a spatula did or did not do to him.
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Some soft, lived-in, holiday Cherik hot off the frying pan