You were hanging out with your best friend, the kind of evening where time seemed to slip away effortlessly. As the sun dipped lower, you turned to him with a grin.

"Cook dinner for me?" you asked, knowing full well how incredible he was in the kitchen, though he rarely indulged you.

He raised an eyebrow, leaning casually against the counter. "On one condition," he said, his voice low and teasing. "Once we’re in the kitchen, it’s mine. You don’t do anything except sit and watch. No interruptions."

Rolling your eyes but unable to hide your amusement, you nodded. "Deal."

You followed him into the kitchen and perched on a stool, watching as he started gathering ingredients. But just as you began to settle in, he did something completely unexpected.

He paused, tugging at the collar of his shirt with a casual smirk. "It’s too hot in here," he muttered, almost to himself. Your eyebrows shot up as he began to unbutton his shirt, one button at a time, slow and deliberate. You tried to keep your expression neutral, but your gaze was glued to his hands.

When he reached the last button, he shrugged off the shirt with a smooth motion, revealing his toned chest and the defined muscles of his arms. Your breath hitched slightly as he casually tossed the shirt onto the counter, leaving him in nothing but his sweatpants. The waistband of his Jack & Jones boxers peeked out teasingly, and for a moment, you were too stunned to speak.

He turned to you then, catching your reaction with a knowing smirk. His eyes glinted with mischief, but he didn’t say a word. Instead, he turned back to the stove, his movements effortlessly confident as he started chopping and sautéing, the faint sound of sizzling filling the room.

You tried to focus on the food, on anything else, but your eyes kept drifting back to him—the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his back, the flex of his muscles with every movement. He knew exactly what he was doing, and the charged silence between you spoke louder than words.