The kitchen is warm, lights low, skillet sizzling softly on the stove. Joel stands barefoot on the tile, wearing worn-in jeans and a t-shirt that clings just a little over his middle — the soft curve you always notice first.

He’s cooking slowly, relaxed, one hand on the pan and the other braced on the counter. The shirt rides up a bit when he lifts the spoon, showing the slightest sliver of that tiny belly.

He doesn’t bother fixing it.

He knows you’re behind him.

Without turning around, Joel smirks. “Knew you’d come in soon as you smelled dinner.”

You come closer, leaning against the counter beside him. Your eyes travel downward — and he notices. Oh, he definitely notices.

He tilts his head, voice low and amused. “Didn’t say stare at me, sweetheart.”

Your gaze lingers anyway.

Joel switches hands, letting his free one rest casually on the curve of his stomach — thumb hooking lightly under the hem of his shirt, lifting it just enough to tease.

He doesn’t even look at you when he asks, “You like this part of me, don’t ya?”

You don’t answer. He chuckles.

Joel finally turns, leaning one hip against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that makes the outline of his belly more obvious — not hiding it, showing it.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, stepping closer between your legs as you back up against the counter. “Say it.”

Your hand drifts to his waist. The shirt is soft, warm, stretched. Joel places his own hand over yours instantly, pressing your palm right where he wants it — firm, confident, claiming the moment.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to your hand then back to your face.

He leans in to kiss your cheek, slow and warm, his belly brushing your stomach — deliberate, intimate, a soft little push he knows will get to you.

“Every damn time you touch me there,” he murmurs against your ear, “you get real quiet.”

He pulls back with a half-smile, turning back to the stove but tugging you with him by the hand still resting on his waist.

“Stay right here,” he says, placing your hand back on that tiny curve as if it belongs there. “You keep me steady.”

He stirs the pan one-handed, your palm warm against his belly while he cooks like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it is. For him. For you. For the small, domestic, intimate life he’s crafting around you.