“You ever think you’re too obsessed with food?” you tease, perched on the kitchen stool, watching him move around the stove like he owns the damn place—and you guess, in this moment, he kinda does.

Without even looking up, he replies, “You ever think you don’t appreciate it enough?”

You snort. “Please. I appreciate it just fine. Compliments to the chef, chef’s kiss, blah blah blah…” You grin. “You’re lucky you look hot while you’re bossing that risotto around.”

He finally glances up, eyebrow raised and mouth tugging into that smug, slow smile he knows drives you crazy. “Hot, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Oh, too late for that,” he says, setting the spoon down. He wipes his hands on a towel, casually walking over like he’s got all the time in the world—and then leans in, voice low and laced with mischief.

“You say compliments to the chef,” he murmurs, “but if you really wanted to thank me… you'd let me spread you out on this counter like one of my favorite recipes—nice and slow, step by step… until you’re dripping, messy, and begging me to taste.”

Your entire body tenses. Heat rushes to your face—your neck—everywhere.

He leans in closer, lips ghosting your jaw. “I’d take my time,” he whispers, “until you’re shaking like a soufflé and moaning louder than the damn stand mixer.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Jesus Christ.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, pupils blown, grin wicked. “Nah,” he smirks, voice cocky and low. “Still just the chef.”

And you’re left sitting there, absolutely wrecked, thighs pressed together, questioning every decision that led you to flirting with him in the first place.

“Eli… you got me… wet…” You whisper.