“You’re dangerous with a knife,” Chris teases, watching you fumble with the cherry tomatoes as one rolls off the cutting board.

You give him a look, cheeks flushed—not just from the wine. “You invited me to cook, not be Gordon Ramsay.”

He’s behind you before you can blink, large hands ghosting over your wrists, steadying the knife. “Here,” he murmurs, voice low against your ear, “let me show you.”

You swear he lingers just a beat too long. His chest brushes your back, and your breath hitches, but you don’t move.

“Like this,” he says, guiding your hand slowly. “Gentle. Confident. You gotta commit.”

“I could say the same to you,” you reply, tilting your head just slightly so your eyes meet his.

He grins—shameless, boyish, a little dangerous. “Touché.”

When he finally steps back, it’s with a hand at your waist that trails off reluctantly.

The kitchen is warm, dimly lit by sunset through the blinds and the flicker of candles on the counter. He opens another bottle of wine, and you steal a glance at the way his shirt clings to his back, the tattoos peeking from under the sleeve.

You’re talking about pasta, then movies, then sex scenes in movies—“Did you ever see Unfaithful?” he asks, eyes on your mouth—and the air feels heavier than it did twenty minutes ago.

You take a sip of wine. “Is this your strategy? Lure me in with carbs and seduction?”

Chris shrugs, leaning one elbow on the counter, other hand sliding over to rest on your bare knee. “Is it working?”

His hand stays there. Warm. Confident. Casual like he doesn’t notice what it’s doing to you—but you know he does.

You smirk. “You’re awfully smug for someone who dropped an entire tomato earlier.”

He laughs, leaning in until you feel his breath on your cheek. “Yeah, but I rescued it. That’s got to count for something.”

You play along, shifting closer. “You’re lucky I like cocky.”

He looks at you—really looks—and something shifts. His thumb draws small circles into the inside of your thigh now, and you swear the room gets quieter.

“You like me, huh?” he asks, voice lower, teasing.

You match his gaze. “Maybe.”

Chris leans even closer, lips just inches from yours. “Maybe I like you too.”

You expect him to kiss you.

But he pulls back instead, slowly, and smirks like he’s won something.

“Come on,” he says, reaching for your hand. “If we burn the garlic bread, I’m blaming you.”

You laugh—breathless, confused, and completely into it.