He fucked up the carrots.

Paul grinds his teeth, staring down at the now-soggy mess in the pot. The clock was ticking, the family dinner was hours away, and here he was—having ruined the one thing he was supposed to get right. Carrots. He could handle the chowder. He could handle the crab. But goddamn it, he couldn’t even manage carrots.

He huffs, muttering to himself under his breath, his fingers tightening around the spatula. “Focus, Paul. Focus.”

And then there’s you. His boyfriend. Of course.

The second you press your lips to his skin, he shudders involuntarily, his concentration shattering. You always knew how to get under his skin, your lips a little too insistent as they trail along the nape of his neck, sending chills down his spine.

“Stop,” he snaps, his voice sharp as he slaps the spatula against the counter with frustration. “I can’t—look, the carrots—”