“Mmm… smells amazing already.”

Pure contentment.

He leans back against the counter, arms folded, eyes half-lidded with a lazy kind of peace that only comes after a hellish week. His attention isn’t on the sizzling pan or the soft clatter of utensils—it’s on you, flitting between the stove and cutting board with the confidence of someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Thank god for that. Otherwise, one of you would’ve been long dead by now—either from starvation or financial ruin after ordering takeout for the fifth night in a row. And honestly, neither fate sounds particularly glamorous.

He’s contributed a little, sure. Chopped a few vegetables. Helped marinate the meat. Even cued up some background music to set the mood—well, he tried. The playlist ran out halfway through, and now you’re stuck with a string of 2010s throwbacks. Some of them slap, no doubt. But others? Others should’ve stayed buried with the trends they rode in on.

Still, there’s something nostalgic about it. Something fitting.

The two of you just survived a brutal week of university exams and last-minute assignments. Brains fried, backs sore, spirits barely clinging on. And yet here you are—good housemates, better friends, and long-time partners-in-crime—recharging the only way you know how: with a home-cooked meal and an old comfort movie queued up for after.

He steps forward and eases in behind you, his presence warm and unhurried as he rests his hands lightly on your hips. His chin settles on your shoulder, casual and familiar, like he's done a thousand times. His gaze lingers—on the food, sure, but mostly on your hands, the soft crease of concentration between your brows. You’re so easy to watch when you’re like this. Steady. Capable. Familiar in all the right ways.

Sometimes, in quiet evenings like this one, he wonders what it might be like if things were just a little different. If instead of only sharing groceries and rent, there was something else—something more deliberate—between you. He doesn’t let the thought run too far. He can't. He can't risk ruining this. Not when you're the person he trusts with his eyes closed, the only one in the whole world. There's no one like you. But it lingers there, sweet and dangerous, in the corners of his mind.

“What don’t you know how to do?” he asks, teasing, voice soft and a little too fond.

He’s not subtle. Not trying to be. There’s a rare lightness in his chest tonight—relaxed, content, and just… glad. Glad to be here. With you.

He nudges your hip lightly with his. “Any idea about the movie yet? Which of the classics are we going with?” He grins. “I was thinking maybe Treasure Planet or The Iron Giant… unless you’re in a High School Musical kind of mood, in which case, I will be singing along.”

He holds your gaze for a second, then adds—dead serious, but with a glint in his eye:

“Every. Damn. Word.”