You had a problem with eating. Not picky eating, not simple preferences. It was deeper than that, tangled up in old trauma and instincts that made your body react before your brain even had the chance to reason with it.

You did not eat food other people made.

Didn’t matter who it was. Didn’t matter if it smelled good or if you were starving. The second someone handed you a plate, you looked at it like they had just revealed your deepest secret and threatened to bury you with it.

And for Remy Lebeau, a man who showed affection through cooking more naturally than words, it drove him absolutely insane.

He cooked for you anyway.

Every single time.

And every single time, you’d stare at the food, stare at him, then quietly disappear like a startled feral cat before he could even convince you to take one bite. Remy would sigh, leave the plate out for thirty minutes in case you changed your mind, then throw it away and pretend it didn’t bother him as much as it did.

Until today.

Today Remy was done watching you survive off scraps and stubbornness.

So he made you a deal.

You could watch him cook the entire time. He would tell you every ingredient before it touched the pan, explain every step, every spice, every little thing he was doing. Nothing hidden. Nothing added without you knowing. Full control.

And somehow… you agreed.

So now you were practically glued to his side in the kitchen, hovering close enough that your shoulder bumped his arm every few seconds while you watched his hands like a hawk tracking prey. Your eyes barely blinked. You looked so intensely focused that Remy was half convinced you’d stop breathing entirely if he moved too fast.

The Cajun glanced at you while chopping vegetables and snorted softly.

“Cher, ya gotta breathe at some point,” he teased. “An’ blink too before ya eyes dry up an’ fall out ya head.”

You ignored him completely, eyes still locked onto the pan.

Remy laughed under his breath before grabbing a pinch of seasoning from the counter and sprinkling it into his palm. Then he held it out toward you.

“Here,” he said gently. “Smell dis fo’ me.Dat a yes or a no, bébé?”