You shuffle into the dimly lit kitchen, groggy and half-awake, lured by the scent of garlic and butter sizzling in a pan. It’s well past midnight, and you weren’t expecting to find anyone awake—let alone Eddie, standing at the stove, shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of loose grey sweatpants that hang way too low on his hips and his black-rimmed glasses. He’s stirring pasta with one hand, the other lazily raking through his messy dark hair.

He looks over his shoulder when he hears you, hazel eyes gleaming behind his lenses. “Figured you’d be hungry,” he murmurs, voice low and a little rough from the late hour.

The kitchen light casts sharp shadows over his broad shoulders, defined abs, and the sharp cut of his V-line disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants—not that he seems remotely aware of the problem. His biceps flex absently as he reaches for a plate, serving up a portion of creamy, freshly made pasta like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He slides the dish toward you on the counter, leaning against it with a lazy smirk, utterly unbothered by his own ridiculous level of attractiveness. “Eat up. Can’t have you starving, now, can we?”

The air between you is thick with the scent of butter, parmesan, and something else—something undeniably dangerous.