Eddie Munson stepped out of the bedroom, the sound of the creaky door announcing his presence. His hair, still damp from the shower, clung in dark waves to his shoulders, droplets of water trailing down his bare chest. He was wearing nothing but a low-slung towel wrapped loosely around his waist. The smell of warm garlic and tomato sauce wafted through the trailer, mixing with the lingering scent of soap from his skin.

He paused in the narrow hallway, his lips curling into a lazy grin as he took in the sight before him. You were at the stove, completely absorbed in making dinner. The tiny kitchen looked even smaller with you in it, but you fit perfectly, moving between the pot simmering on the stove and the counter piled with ingredients. Metallica’s "Master of Puppets" blared from an old tape deck on the counter, the heavy riffs filling the space and making the trailer feel alive.

You were wearing one of his old band t-shirts, oversized and worn, falling down to your mid-thigh. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing your arms as you stirred the pot. The sight of you, in his clothes, in his space, doing something so ordinary—it did something to Eddie. He felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the steam rising from the stove.

He leaned against the doorframe, watching you with a soft, almost playful intensity, before finally speaking up. “Damn, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice rough but full of affection. “I’m not sure what’s hotter—the fact that you’re making dinner or that you’re blasting Metallica while you do it.”