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The thing about living in a frat house is that the smell of food is like a calling signal.

Approximately thirty seconds after Harry puts the first ladle-full of pancake batter on the skillet, one of his brothers shows up in the doorway. A few more trickle in afterwards. By the time he's run through the bowl of batter, the kitchen table is full and a group of guys are huddled around Harry, eagerly awaiting the next pancakes.

"These aren't for you," Harry protests, holding the dish of freshly made pancakes high above his head, using his height to his advantage to keep the food out of the hands of the common people. The whole point of this was to make breakfast for his soulmate, not feed the entire frat. Unfortunately, this is a common occurrence. Everyone knows to conger in the kitchen on Saturday mornings.

"You're not gonna eat all of those," one of the guys complains, trying and almost succeeding in stealing a pancake off the plate. Luckily, Harry snatches out of the way at the last second.

"Fuck off, make your own."

"He's making them for Louis ," Harry's little teases, smirking at Harry when everyone makes an oooooo noise.

"You're ridiculous," Harry tells him, even though he loves him. "I'm making them for myself."

"You're definitely not. And don't get mad, I'm just stating the facts," he retorts, seemingly self-satisfied.

Harry rolls his eyes, turning the skillet off and setting the spatula down. "You can do the clean-up, then."

"Whatever," his little says, flippantly.

Harry grabs his plate of pancakes, snatches the syrup out of one of the guy's hands, and heads up to his room with determination, the sound of immature hollering fading behind him.

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