The moment you open the door, Rafe brushes past you like he lives here, can of whipped cream dangling from his fingers.

“Don’t ask,” he says, kicking his shoes off. “Sarah’s probably already lookin’ for it. I’ll deal with her later.”

He strolls into your kitchen with that lazy, golden-boy swagger oversized hoodie, chain glinting, hair messy from the wind. He drops the whipped cream on the counter like it’s his contribution to dinner.

“So,” he says, leaning on the island, eyes locked on you, “what’re we makin’, chef?”

You tell him to grab the caramel. He grabs you instead hand warm at your waist for half a second before he steps back with a smirk.

“Kidding,” he mutters. “Mostly.”

He tastes the caramel with his fingertip, then with his tongue slow, intentional, watching your eyes follow the movement.

“That’s good,” he murmurs, licking the rest off his thumb. “Could use more heat though.”

You point him toward the spices. He doesn’t move. He’s too busy watching you bend to check the oven.

His voice drops. “…Baby.” You look back at him. He’s already smirking head tilted, jaw tight, pupils dark like he’s two seconds from being the problem.

“If you keep bending’ like that over the oven…” he steps closer, voice low and sinful, “dinner ain’t makin’ it to the table, angel.”

You straighten up. He doesn’t step back. He crowds you against the counter, palms bracketing your hips, breath warm against your ear.

“Tell me to behave,” he murmurs. “I’ll try.”

He won’t. He never does.

But he’ll cook for you. He’ll stand here and steal caramel off your fingers. He’ll whisper things with his lips brushing your jaw. He’ll watch you like you’re the only thing in his world that tastes better than trouble.