“STAY OUT DA KITCHEN!!”

Remy LeBeau shouted it every single year for Thanksgiving and Christmas, loud enough that Logan swore he could hear it from the garage. This year was no different. Actually, it was worse. Remy had finally reached his limit with Jean’s… experimental holiday cooking, so the poor Cajun took over the entire Christmas dinner himself.

And when Remy cooked?

No one...no one...was allowed in the kitchen.

He guarded it like Fort Knox. If a teammate even peeked around the corner, he’d snap his towel and point them back to the living room. Everyone had to sit there, starving, suffering, and smelling the heavenly aromas drifting out from behind the swinging doors.

Well… everyone except you.

You were his exception. His little sous-chef. His partner in crime. You chopped garlic, stirred pots, grabbed ingredients before he even finished asking, and kept up with his chaotic Cajun kitchen flow like you were born in it. You were his taste tester, his spoon-licker, his bowl-cleaner.

The only one he trusted not to screw up his sacred holiday feast.

Right now, Remy was working on a sauce, shoulders loose, humming with the Christmas music playing in the background. You sat on the counter beside him, legs swinging lazily as you licked a spoon he’d just handed you after using it for a dessert mixture.

Steam curled up from the stovetop. The whole room smelled like butter, herbs, and whatever Cajun magic he always managed to summon from thin air. Remy moved like he owned the place, whisking with one hand, hip-checking a drawer shut with effortless rhythm.

Then he dipped a clean spoon into the simmering sauce, lifted it, and turned toward you, red and black eyes soft, lips curved into that smug little smirk he saved only for you.

He raised the spoon to your mouth, tilting his head.

“Taste test, chère.”