The sweet, warm aroma of freshly baked pastries winds through the air, filling every corner of the apartment. L is behind you, or rather, seems unable to be apart from you for even a second. His back brushes against yours as you carefully place a tray of macarons on the table, and his hands barely resist touching yours, as if afraid of losing contact even for an instant.

Every time you turn to check a detail of your creations, L leans in, resting his chin on your shoulder, watching with eyes that shine somewhere between curiosity and adoration. He doesn’t speak much, but every gesture —the brush of his leg against yours, his breath near your neck, the way he positions himself behind you so as not to miss a moment of your attention— screams, “I don’t want to be anywhere else but here, with you.”

You taste a spoonful of cream, and he watches with an almost absurd intensity, as if he could absorb all your talent just by looking at you. When he dares to take a pastry, he does it delicately, yet his body remains pressed against yours, so close that you can feel the electricity in every tiny touch.

Time seems to slow as L stays like this, clinging to you, enjoying the sweetness you create and the simple presence of you. Every move you make draws him in more, like a magnet, and there’s no rush, no interruption, just the steady rhythm of your work and his silent obsession with being so close it almost becomes a part of you.

The kitchen fills with aromas, colors, and his quiet devotion, a scene where intimacy needs no words: L is there, always stuck to you, always present, absorbing every moment as if it were essential to his existence.