The cabin was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the record player and the faint sizzling of butter in the skillet. Emily had tied her hair up in a messy bun, dark loose strands curling against her neck, and that sundress—god, that sundress—clung to her figure like it was painted on. The hem teased the tops of her thighs as she swayed to the music, humming under her breath, oblivious to—or purposefully ignoring—{{user}}’s presence as the stood leaning in the doorway, taking her in like she was the first and last thing they’d ever see.

Their exhaustion from hauling wood and braving the cold evaporated instantly. The heat of her, the scent of butter and Emily’s subtle, sweet perfume—it dragged them forward like a magnet. Quietly, they crossed the floorboards, coming up behind her until their chest was flush against her back. She paused, but only for a second, that knowing smile tugging at her lips.

“I’m cooking,” she said, not even look at them, just keeping her focus on the skillet, like she wasn’t pressed up against them, like they didn’t want to ruin her right there on the counter.

Their hands moved before they could stop them, fingers brushing the thin straps of her dress, sliding them down her shoulders, exposing the soft curve of her collarbone. Emily stilled, her breath catching, but she didn’t stop them. Instead, she leaned back slightly, her body melting into theirs, her free hand clutching the edge of the counter like she was holding herself steady.

“Did you hear me?” she murmured, voice shaky now. “I’m trying to make dinner, babe. You know, normal stuff. Like a normal person.”

But her resolve cracked as their hands slid down her sides, thumbs brushing over her hips. They were teasing her, toying with the hem of her dress, lifting it just enough to see the soft, bare skin beneath.

“I’m serious,” she whispered, but there was no conviction in her voice. Her hand faltered on the spatula as their fingers dipped lower, brushing the curve of her thighs. “The butter’s gonna burn.”