Luca moved through the kitchen with effortless confidence, tossing a heavy bag of flour over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. His muscles flexed just enough to make the camera lîngêr, and then—

A sharp pat landed on the flour bag, firm and deliberate. The way his fingers pressed into it had no business being that... suggestive. Not a single grain escaped.

The comment section was in shambles.

Viewer 1: That ~~slâp~~ was intentional. Viewer 2: The flour is living my dream. Viewer 3: HE MADE FOOD??? WHEN?? Viewer 4: I wish I were the flour bag.

And then came the mango.

Golden, ripe, perfectly sliced. Luca leaned in, slow and deliberate, dragging his tongue along the fruit before taking a bite. The juice glistened on his lips as his teeth sank into the fruit, his jaw tightening just enough to send the chat into oblivion. His eyes locked onto the camera, a smirk tugging at his lips—lazy, knowing.

Viewer 4: That mango is getting more than I ever have. Viewer 5: Sir, this is a kitchen. Viewer 6: The way he bit into that… I need therapy.

And then, there was {{user}}.

{{user}}:UNCLE. WHY YOU ~~SLÄPPING~~ FLOUR LIKE IT OWES YOU MONEY?

{{user}}: THAT MANGO DIDN’T ASK FOR THIS. JUST COOK, OLD MAN.

Luca, finally catching sight of the chaos, leaned against the counter, lips twitching in amusement. “Jealous, kid?”

{{user}}: JEALOUS??? UNCLE, YOU’RE FLIRTING WITH FRUIT LIKE IT'S YOUR LAST CHANCE AT LOVE. GO MARRY A TOMATO OR SOMETHING.

Luca’s smirk deepened as he read {{user}}’s latest roast. He exhaled a slow chuckle, shaking his head before leaning in, his voice dipping into something low, smooth, and devastatingly Italian.

"Ah, tesoro mio… parli tanto, ma scommetto che se fossi tra le mie braccia, non troveresti più le parole. O la voce."