The tiny kitchen in Tom’s cluttered apartment was a battlefield of clanging pots and muttered curses. Tom stood at the counter, his chef’s knife a blur as he diced carrots with a ferocity that bordered on personal vendetta. His cheeks were already flushed, a mix of irritation and something softer, something unspoken, as he grumbled under his breath. “Jim, that absolute idiot. If he thinks he can just waltz in here again with his nonsense, he’s got another thing coming.”
The sharp ring of the doorbell sliced through his rant, and Tom’s shoulders slumped with a groan. He wiped his hands on the stained apron tied around his waist, the fabric clinging to his lean frame in a way he didn’t notice but someone else surely would. “Speak of the devil,” he muttered, stomping toward the door with a scowl already in place.
Before he could even turn the knob, the door burst open with a theatrical flourish, revealing Jim in all his chaotic glory. The man’s grin was wide and mischievous, his dark hair tousled as if he’d just rolled out of bed—or someone’s bed. In his hand, he waved a stack of freshly printed pages like a victory flag. “Tommy, my darling! Feast your eyes on my latest masterpiece!” he declared, striding into the apartment as if he owned it.
Tom’s hazel eyes narrowed at the sight of the manuscript, a familiar heat creeping up his neck. He snatched the pages from Jim’s hand with a huff, holding them at arm’s length like they might bite. “What is this garbage now? Another one of your ridiculous BL novels? I swear, Jim, if you’ve written me into this again—”
“Oh, come on, don’t act like you’re not curious,” Jim interrupted, stepping closer with a wicked gleam in his eye. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, dripping with faux romance. “You’re the perfect muse, Tommy. All broody and domestic in that cute little apron. How could I resist?”
Tom’s face flared redder than the tomatoes on the counter, and he shoved Jim back with more force than necessary, though his hands lingered just a fraction too long on the other man’s chest. “You’re a delusional pervert, you know that?” he snapped, turning back to the counter to hide the way his pulse raced. “I’m not some swooning character in your weird fantasies.”
Jim clutched his chest dramatically, staggering back as if wounded. “Ouch, Tommy, you cut me deep! But fine, if you won’t feed my heart, at least feed my stomach. I’m wasting away here!” He dropped to his knees with an exaggerated wail, crawling toward the stove and sniffing the air like a starving dog. “Please, oh great chef, have mercy on this poor soul!”
Tom rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t pop out of his head, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself. “Get up, you idiot. Stop acting like a starving toddler and sit down before I kick you out.” He shoved a plate of steaming stir-fry across the counter toward Jim, crossing his arms with a mock glare.
Jim’s eyes lit up as he scrambled to his feet and plopped into a chair, digging into the food with the enthusiasm of a man who hadn’t eaten in days. The moans that escaped his lips were downright indecent, loud and drawn out as he chewed. “Oh, Tommy, this is sinful. You’ve got hidden talents, don’t you? I bet you could make a man beg for more than just seconds.”
Tom nearly dropped the pan he was scrubbing, his grip faltering as heat surged to his face again. “Shut up, Jim, or I swear I’ll throw this ladle at you,” he barked, but his voice cracked halfway through, betraying the way Jim’s words sent a shiver down his spine.
Jim leaned back in his chair, smirking like the cat that got the cream. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze lazy but piercing as it fixed on Tom. “You know, I wrote a scene in this new chapter that’s inspired by you. Something about a hot chef in an apron… let’s just say it gets steamy. Wanna read it?”
Tom’s face turned the approximate shade of a ripe tomato as he sputtered, a string of half-hearted curses tumbling out. “You’re insufferable! A complete menace! I’m not—ugh, just—just shut up!” He spun back to the sink, splashing water over a plate with more force than necessary, desperate to hide the way his ears burned.
He didn’t hear Jim move until the man was right behind him, close enough that Tom could feel the heat of his breath against his ear. “Aw, don’t be like that, Tommy,” Jim whispered, his voice low and teasing. “I bet we could wash more than dishes together, don’t you think?”
Tom jolted, water splashing everywhere as he spun around, apron soaked and clinging to his chest. He grabbed the nearest dishcloth and shoved it into Jim’s face, pushing him back with a mix of exasperation and nervous laughter. “Get a grip, you horny idiot! I’m not one of your damn characters, so back off before I drown you in this sink!”
Jim stumbled back, laughing as he wiped the wet cloth from his face, completely unfazed. He hopped up to sit on the counter, legs swinging casually as he grinned. “Fine, fine, I’ll behave… for now. But just you wait, Tommy. The next chapter? It’s gonna be even spicier. I’ve got ideas.”
Tom glared daggers at him, gripping the edge of the sink as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. His heart was racing, a traitor in his chest, but he didn’t kick Jim out. He couldn’t. Not yet. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, turning back to the dishes, though the faintest trace of a smile lingered on his lips.
And Jim, lounging on the counter like he belonged there, just watched him with that infuriating, knowing smirk. The kitchen was hot, the air thick with unspoken sparks, and neither of them was ready to douse the flame.
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