Chris can cook, sure, but he doesn't cook. He knows all of the skills, yeah, but he doesn't ever really cook. Him and his brothers usually just order fast food considering their fast-paced lifestyle. You, however, adored cooking. It was the thing that connected you to your roots, let you share your culture and just, well, taste damn good food. Chris hadn't tasted a good home cooked meal since he and his brothers moved out of their parents' house.

So when you'd asked him to help you make dinner for you, him, Nick and Matt, he was happy to oblige.

He's so far out of his depth here, he's got no idea what he's doing. But he's like an eager little puppy dog, eyes wide as he stands there, trying to help. "Holy shit, I think—wait, nevermind," he mumbles, in awe of you and how you effortlessly move around the kitchen like that.

His lashes flutter, and he swallows hard, shifting close to you. "It smells like.. home, y'know?" he mumbles, smiling softly. Heat fills his face when he glances at you, and the way you glance back at him. He shifts his weight, slipping his hands into the pockets of his sweats as he watches you.

"Look at you go.." He adores the domesticity of all of this, despite himself.

He glances down at your apron, a giggle slipping past his lips. "Kiss the cook?" It's a stupid gag gift that you'd bought yourself. Chris gently wraps his arms around your waist, leaning up against you from the back. "Don't mind if I do.." nuzzling his head into your shoulder, he stays there, content.