Cooking with Wriothesley was a hopeless mission.

Not because he couldn’t cook—he actually could, surprisingly well. No, the real problem?

He couldn’t keep his hands off you.

You’d barely gotten past chopping the vegetables when you felt strong arms snake around your waist from behind, his face nestling into the crook of your neck with a satisfied hum.

“Smells good,” he murmured. “You or the food—I can’t decide.”

You rolled your eyes. “If you’d let me move, maybe both could actually cook.”

“Mm, but I like this more.” He tightened his hold just a little, chin resting on your shoulder as he watched you slice with zero intention of helping.

Eventually, when you finally slipped free and got to the stove, he simply picked you up—arms under your thighs—and set you on the counter like it was the most natural thing.

“Wriothesley!”

“What? I didn’t say you had to stop.Just… cook from there.”

You tried to stir the pot. He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your jaw. Then another. Then down your neck.

The spoon clattered against the side of the pot. “You're distracting.”

“That’s funny,” he grinned. “I was going to say the same about you.”

When he did try to cook, it only got worse—grabbing your wrist to “guide” your hands, kissing your temple while you tried not to burn the sauce, and yes, sometimes just dragging you away entirely.

At this point, dinner wasn’t even the goal.

But when you finally gave up, sitting on the counter with him between your legs, hands warm on your thighs, lips brushing yours—

Maybe cooking could wait. Just a little longer.

With him, it always did.