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"You don't need to stab it further, the pig is already dead." He says nonchalantly seeing my fork keeps jabbing at the bacon without actually eating it.

I roll my eyes and bring it to my mouth, "It should be the other pig who's dead, not this one."

There's a slight twitch at the corner of his lips, acknowledging my statement. But then he continues eating the big breakfast on his plate while I resume playing with my food, not really having an appetite after spending an hour in the morning quarrelling with a pig.

Half an hour later, while I'm still moving the food around the plate, the bell rings signalling there's somebody at the door. He stops sipping on the coffee from his mug and stands up, "Finish your breakfast," warning me once again before heading to the entrance.

I watch his firm ass juggles with each confident stride, at the same time appreciating his muscled back, somewhat baffled at how confident he is to open the door in that barely-dressed state.

But again, if I have a