Kup's korner

 

Arched backs,
Breath hitching,
Cuffs clicking,
Dominance whispered,
Eyes half-lidded,
Floggers swaying,
Gasps mingling,
Hands guiding,
Impulse restrained,
Jealous teasing,
Knots tightening,
Lips hovering,
Murmurs melting,
Nerves singing,
Obedience tested,
Pulse racing,
Quivers rising,
Ropes tracing,
Skin trembling,
Trust deepening,
Utter surrender,
Velvet control,
Whisper: good girl,
X-rated thoughts unspoken,
Yearning held,
Zen afterglow.

 

☺️ thanks for reading. 

 

Scott slid his empty across the table, eyes steady. “Peace offering,” he said, tone dry as a Texas summer. “Dance with me.”

Before she could lodge even a polite objection, his fingers closed around hers—warm, sure—and he was already standing, already leading. The old jukebox thunked, crackled, and then that velvet orchestra rose like a curtain. Brass smiled. Strings sighed. Somewhere, couples from a better decade started gliding in her head.

Elena did not glide.

She arrived on the tiny square of open floor in combat stance: spine tall, chin set, knees informing everyone present that there would be no swooning tonight, thank you. She did not like him—at least that’s the gospel she’d been repeating to herself since beer number one. He was bossy, unreadable, and had a way of winning arguments without opening his mouth. Her hand in his felt like a contract she hadn’t read closely enough.

“Loosen your grip,” he murmured.

“I’m not gripping.”

“You’re negotiating with my knuckles.”

She exhaled and let a millimeter go. His palm settled at the small of her back, not pushing, just…present. Ground. He angled them into the music with a patient quarter-turn, the kind that assumes the song will wait for you. His steps were economical, old-school: a gentleman’s foxtrot trimmed to bar-space. He didn’t show off. He didn’t count aloud. He simply offered a road and expected she could walk it.

At first, she fought the map. She kept her shoulders square, eyes everywhere but on him—the bar mirror, the beer taps, the exit. Yet the room had shrunk to the radius of his arm, and the mirror kept giving her back two people who looked like they’d promised to misbehave. His cologne was nothing more than clean soap and something citrus from the kitchen. It shouldn’t have unsettled her. It did.

“Try breathing,” he said, low.

“I am breathing.”

"Not like someone being hunted.”

“That would require a hunter.”

He smiled with one corner and—blast him—didn’t bite back. He just let the music do its slow persuasion. Another turn. His hand shifted a fraction closer to her spine, and the world reassembled around that point of contact. The jukebox hissed a soft seam of vinyl and the tempo lifted. He followed, she resisted—then failed to resist one step, then another. Her hips began to forget the argument her mouth was winning.

The bar was almost empty now: a couple of fishermen nursing the bottom of their night, the bartender polishing a glass with a towel that would never be clean. Outside the windows, a pale Arctic dusk hung around like a neighbor who didn’t know when to go home. Inside, time got polite and stood still.

“Look at me,” he said.

Annoying man. She did, because she wouldn’t be told what to do. His eyes were dark and steady, not asking for anything, not apologizing for anything either. For a second she saw the quiet engine under all that control—the way he took care of the flame in a kitchen, the way he had taken care of tonight without bragging about it.

Her shoulders dropped.

He felt it. He didn’t comment; he just let the space between them shorten by a breath. His thumb traced a small, absent-minded arc at her back, and something in her chest answered with a softer, more dangerous rhythm. He guided her into a slow spin, brought her back with a catch at her fingertips that said I’ve got you and, worse, proved it.

“Better,” he whispered.

She hated that it was true. She loved that it was true. The two feelings braided until they were indistinguishable, and the room surrendered its hard edges. She could feel the music in the soles of her boots now, in the elastic give of the floor, in the knot of her scarf where it brushed his jaw as they tilted closer. He led; she let herself be led; and where her doubt tried to reassert itself, the next measure arrived and the next step solved it.

Her body betrayed her further. Her cheek found the clean plane of his shoulder for a single, treasonous second. She pretended it was an accident. He pretended to believe her. They moved in a slow orbit—her hand at his shirtfront, feeling the faint heat under cotton; his breath warm at her temple, keeping time for the both of them. He didn’t talk. He didn’t make a pitch. He simply kept her safe inside the geometry of an old song.

Somewhere between the second chorus and the part where the horns lift like they’ve decided to forgive you, Elena realized she was smiling. Not the professional smile, all surface and teeth. The private one, small and involuntary, the kind she hadn’t used in months. She tried to chase it away with a joke.

“You’re not as terrible at this as I expected,” she murmured.

“I’ll take that as a rave.”

“Don’t. I have standards.”

“I know,” he said, and there was something in the way he said it—utterly sure, utterly gentle—that loosened the last latch inside her.

Another turn. The jukebox’s glow caught the ice walls and sent pale constellations across his cheekbone. He smelled like lemon and clean smoke. His pulse under her palm felt like the bar’s old heartbeat, steady and unhurried, as if nothing bad could possibly happen on a night when two stubborn people decided to be tender.

By the bridge, she’d stopped tracking exits. By the final refrain, she was moving because he was moving, and the lead-and-follow had become a conversation her body preferred to any argument. When he drew her in that last inch, her breath lifted of its own accord and she didn’t flinch. Her forehead met his. The orchestra swelled, and—God help her—she wanted every slow song of the next decade with this man.

The music softened to its feathered end. They didn’t release each other at once. He eased them still and, for a beat, held her like something valuable that could break. No claim. No clever line. Just a hush that said he’d noticed her staying.

She opened her eyes. The bar was nearly empty. The world had rearranged itself by a few degrees.

“Truce?” he asked.

She should have said something wry. Instead, she let her thumb press once against his chest, right over the heartbeat that had kept her steady, and nodded.

“Truce,” she said, voice quiet and annoyingly sincere.

He smiled—small, relieved, a man who’d wagered without bragging about the odds—and guided her back to their booth. But the night had already changed. Elena felt it in the way her hand didn’t want to leave his, in the echo of the song in her ribs, in the warmth that followed her like a promise.

Somewhere in the space between the first stiff step and the final note, she’d fallen. Not all the way, not yet. Just enough to know she was in trouble. 

They sat across from each other, hands intertwined in the middle of the table. Her head was swimming with so many thoughts. She settled on one. “I'm sorry.” She began, “I feel a little unsteady, would you mind walking me to my room?” Her cheeks flushed pink. “Please”

“Sure thing, princess.” He quipped, “Are you ready to go?”

She nodded her head, and reached for her stuff, when he swiped it off the table with one hand, and took hers with the other. He stood first, then waited for her to steady herself. He placed his free hand at the small of her back, gently guiding her out of the bar, nodding to the bartender as they left. He guided her, steadily, down the hall and into the main lobby. Nearly across the room, she stopped suddenly, the pressure on her back increased Briefly before adjusting to her movement. 

“Look at that view!” She said, a little too loud. She turned to see if he was seeing what she was seeing. But when their eyes met, he saw something entirely different. He saw her. The raw beauty of wonder, like a child's first taste of chocolate, only somehow sweeter for her, in a way he couldn't name.

 

 

Thanks for reading ☺️

She flinched like he’d touched a bruise. “You really think that little of me?”

“No.” The word came hard. “I think the world of you. That’s the problem.”

Something inside her stuttered. She pushed to her feet and paced the tiny room, tiny strides because it was a tiny room and her feelings were too big. “You make me feel like I’m not enough,” she said, not looking at him. “Like I’m standing here practically begging and you’re holding back like I’m a temptation you can’t trust yourself with.”

He rose too, a shadow thrown larger by firelight. “You think you’re not enough? Elena, you’re too much. You burn too bright, and I—” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, eyes pained. “I’m terrified I’ll consume it all and there’ll be nothing left of you.”

She stopped, turned, stared. The room hummed. “So you’d rather starve us both?”

A heartbeat. Two. Then she moved.

She closed the distance, fisted his shirt, and kissed him. Not soft. Not sweet. Hungry and furious and honest. She bit his lower lip and he growled into her mouth, hands landing on her hips like a verdict.

In a blur he lifted her and walked towards the bed, laying her back on the bunk, pinning her there with the hard, delicious weight of his body. His mouth took hers—deeper, hotter—until her thoughts broke apart like cracked ice flowing down a river. She arched up, meeting the solid line of his pelvis as it ground against her, heat slamming through her even under all the layers. He caught both her wrists in one hand, dragged them above her head, and pinned them there against rough wool with iron certainty.

His lips left hers, mapped the sharp edge of her jaw, found the soft place beneath her ear. She gasped, head tilting back on instinct.

“Scott…” It slipped out of her like a secret. Like prayer.

His teeth closed on her throat—not enough to break skin, enough to hold. To tell her body, stay. A sound vibrated out of her, low and raw, and she arched so hard the bunk creaked. The hand that held her wrists tightened; the other skimmed her waist, possessive as a promise.

He trembled against her. His breath came harsh and hot at her ear. He was a thread away from giving up restraint completely—and she could feel it; God, she could feel it.

“Don’t stop” she breathed.

He lifted his head, eyes blown wide, jaw shaking with the effort it took not to devour. For a suspended second, everything balanced: heat, trust, the bright edge of surrender.

Then, at the last possible instant, he tore himself away. Rolled to the side like it hurt. He lay there, chest heaving, forearm over his eyes.

“If I keep going,” he rasped, voice wrecked, “I won’t stop.”

She turned her head, lips swollen, breath unsteady. “Then don’t.”

He dragged the forearm away, met her eyes, and made himself speak like a man stepping into freezing water. “What I want with you isn’t just more.” His voice was raw, honest. “I want to hold you so completely your bones remember it. Tie you so you can’t run—so your body finally learns what your mind won’t believe: that I don’t leave.” He swallowed, the confession scraping. “But I only want that when you want it—when you trust me to keep you safe inside it. Not like this. Not because we’re both on fire.”

 

Hope you all enjoyed it 😊 

 

The week apart stretched like taffy. slow, sticky, and irritating. She wouldn’t admit she missed him, but her phone gave her away. Every time it buzzed, she checked faster than she wanted to.

He messaged twice a day. Sometimes three. Always casual on the surface. weather updates, food critiques, a random meme at midnight. but steady enough to feel like a hand at her back, keeping her upright.

On the sixth day: Back tomorrow. I'll have a surprise for you. Are you ready?

Define ready, she wrote back.

Hungry.

For what? She chimed. Her stomach did that annoying swoop she pretended didn’t happen.

A new kitchen challenge. He shot back. 

…typing, nothing, …typing. Did he have her speechless, he wondered. 

…typing, then finally,”when?”

It took you that long to type “when”? Tired of being challenged? 

She fired back, I never back down from a challenge. When and where? I'm there! 

Tomorrow evening, my kitchen. 

You're on, I'm going to win this time! 

There's my good girl. He replied.

She didn't reply. Just analyzed his words.

By the time she climbed his steps the next night, August heat clung to her skin like syrup.

He opened the door before she finished knocking. Same steady gaze, same irritating calm, except she noticed the faint upturn at his mouth like he’d been waiting exactly here for exactly this.

“Hi,” she said, breezing past him like she was up for a challenge. “You look taller. Humidity fluff your ego or something?” she smirked.

“Shoes,” he said, nodding at her feet.

“Oh, not this again.”

“House rule.”

“You’re obsessed.”

“You’re stalling.”

“Fine.” She kicked them off dramatically, giving spirit fingers. “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic.”

“You should tell your face.”

“My face is patient.”

“Your face is smug.”

“Your face is late,” he countered, already walking toward the kitchen. “Follow me.” 

She followed — and stopped dead in the doorway.

 

The kitchen island was draped in thick white terry cloth. Jars of colored sugar lined up like a rainbow arsenal. A saucepan sat on the stove, steam curling lazy from a jar of honey in a water bath. Cooking thermometer sticking out of the jar. A pastry brush, whisk, and… oh… two sets of leather cuffs rested neatly nearby, their chains dangling off the counter’s edge.

Her brows shot up. “Are we… baking?”

“No.”

“Cooking?”

“No.”

“Sacrifice?” she grinned.

“Art.”

Her pulse tripped, half nerves, half intrigue. “On what?”

“On you.”

“Wow.” She forced nonchalance, and failed. “That’s a casual Tuesday night.” Her eyes smiled. “Can we have tacos?”

“Green?”

“Sauce? Sure.” She laughed. 

The groan rumbled deep in his chest. She was testing him. Cool and collected he spoke firmer. “May we proceed?” Always with the grounding. Always giving her a door. 

She exhaled slowly. “…Green.” 

“Shirt,” he said, quiet but unshakable.

Her head jerked toward him. “Excuse me?”

“Need your back bare.”

“For… artistic purposes?”

“For you.”

“You’re so bad at casual conversation.”

He raised one brow, “Green?”

She hesitated a second too long — then peeled it off and tossed it to him, arms crossing instinctively.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But I’m billing you for therapy.”

He smiled — just enough to be infuriating. “Noted.”

 

The cuffs were soft leather, snug but forgiving. He buckled them with maddening precision, checking each strap like a ritual. She tested him immediately, tugging at the chains.

“You always this prepared?” she asked, voice dripping mock suspicion.

“Only when it matters.”

“God, you sound like a motivational meme.”

“You matter.”

She groaned. “If you keep saying that, I’m getting you a Hallmark stamp.”

“I’ll use it.”

“Of course you will.”

 

He laid a pillow atop the island, smoothing the terry cloth. “Stomach down.”

She eyed it like it might bite. “Nap time already?”

“For you.”

“Planning to suffocate me?”

His laugh rumbled low — warm, unguarded. “Murder and honey don’t mix.”

“Comforting.”

“You’re stalling.”

“I’m processing!”

“You’re stalling.”

“Fine!” She flopped onto the pillow in exaggerated defeat. “But if ants bite me, I’m suing.”

She heard him snort, as he was pulling the chains into place. Metal kissing metal as he secured her wrists and ankles to eyehooks bolted to the island, she hadn’t noticed them the first time she was there.

“You’ve definitely done this before,” she muttered into the pillow.

“Maybe.”

“And I definitely missed it last time I was here.”

“You weren’t looking.”

“No, I was trying to breathe after inhaling ghost pepper sauce.”

The blindfold slipped over her eyes. Darkness swallowed the room, sharpening sound: chain’s faint rattle, hum of the halogen bulb overhead, his steady breathing behind her.

“So… you’re not even gonna give me a hint?” she asked into the quiet.

“Nope.”

“Cool. Love the mystery torture vibe.”

“Trust me.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Charming.”

 

Warm honey hit first. The pastry brush dragged slow, deliberate ribbons over bare skin — shoulders to spine, spine to waist. Sticky, foreign, soothing.

“Feels weird,” she muttered.

“Bad weird?”

“Sticky weird.”

“Green?”

“…Green.”

 

Coarse sugar followed, cool crystals on warm honey, clinging instantly. He didn’t scatter; he painted. Curves and swirls she couldn’t see but felt bloom under every pass.

“You’re drawing something,” she guessed.

“Maybe.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Rude.”

“Correct.”

 

Powdered sugar snowed last, soft as first frost. Clean brush blending edges, whisk whipped and blurring lines into chaos that somehow felt intentional.

“You’re enjoying this,” she mumbled.

“True.”

“New hobby?”

“Only with you.”

“Lucky me.”

“Exactly.”

 

Time blurred. Sometimes silence hummed; sometimes his low voice cut through. Still good? he’d ask, and she’d reply with sarcasm — her way of saying green.

Sometimes he stepped away deliberately — testing her. Leaving her alone in sticky darkness until anticipation buzzed louder than cicadas outside.

His knuckles grazed her spine. Warm breath at her nape. A sudden nip..sharp, electric…at the curve of her shoulder. She gasped.

“Part of the art?” she asked, voice unsteady.

“Abstract,” he murmured. Licking it.

When silence hit again, she knew he’d stepped back.

“…You better not be taking pictures,” she said suddenly.

“I am.”

Her head jerked. “Excuse me?”

“Just the art, not you.  Green?”

She groaned. “Fine. But if this ends up on the web, I will haunt you forever!”

“Noted.”

Chains unhooked. Limbs jelly.

“Up,” he said softly.

“Can’t.”

His low laugh — warm, amused — and then arms scooping her effortlessly, like she weighed nothing. He carried her down the hall to the master bathroom. 

The shower tile was cool against overheated skin. Warm water sluiced sugar and honey in lazy rivulets. He washed slowly, carefully — knuckles grazing ribs, shoulder blades, hips. Each pass of his hand felt less like cleaning, more like hypnotizing.

“You actually took the picture?” she muttered, head tipped back under spray.

“Just the art, ill show you.”

“Good. I’d sue.”

“You’d lose.”

“Debatable.”

“No punishment tonight?” she murmured, as water rained over them.

“No punishment.” He whispered.

“Reward?”

His mouth found her collarbone — slow bite, just shy of pain. She inhaled sharply.

“Reward,” he said against her skin.

Towel snug around her after, arms steady. Guiding her to his bed. His fintertips at the small of her back, quiet grounding. No sarcastic line this time — just breath, shared and even. She didn’t joke. Didn’t run.

But when she finally whispered, “That was… insane and amazing,”

he smiled, helping her into bed. “thank you” he said, as he climbed in beside her.  

 

Continued for those of you who've enjoyed reading my kitchen adventures...

 

The mid-summer storm had turned feral. Not rain, not wind — rage. It slammed against her narrow balcony doors hard enough to rattle the glass in the cheap frame of the outdated apartment. Every gust whistled through gaps in the weather stripping maintenance needed to fix. Lightning strobed behind closed mini blinds, throwing the kitchen into harsh flashes. His profile leaned easy against the doorframe. Dinner was over. Dishes rinsed, counters wiped. But neither of them moved toward the door.

She stood at the counter, arms crossed tight, pulse still tripping from earlier. He hadn’t said much since they’d finished eating, just watched her with that unnervingly calm presence that always made her feel naked and cornered. The quiet went on long enough she thought maybe they’d ride it out.

Then he said, low and certain, “Tell me something real.”

The words cut through rain and thunder like they’d been waiting in his mouth all night.

Her brows jumped. “Excuse me?”

“Something real,” he repeated. Calm, steady. “No jokes. No deflection.”

The sarcasm shot out of her on reflex. “Fine. It’s always cloudy when it rains.”

His eyes didn’t move. “Try again.”

“Wow,” she deadpanned. “You’re really fun at parties.”

“Try. Again.”

His voice didn’t rise, but there was weight to it. Not pushy — unshakable. She stared at the tile between them, fingers twitching against her arm. Jokes came easy; honesty never had. But his silence was heavier than any punchline she could throw at it.

“Look,” he said, stepping closer. “I like the banter. But I want what’s behind it, too.”

He reached for her hand — slow enough she could’ve pulled back, sure enough she didn’t. His palm was warm, rough. Grounding.

“Give me something.”

She froze. Breath caught in her throat. The storm outside felt quieter compared to the one in her ribs.

“No one’s ever asked me that,” she whispered.

“I’m not everyone.”

The words undid her. Silence stretched until it felt unbearable.

“Fine,” she breathed, voice splintering. “You want real?”

Lightning split the sky white through the curtain. Thunder answered, teeth-rattling close.

“I was abused before I was even born.” Her throat scraped raw. “And it doesn’t stop there." She stammered "I’m better off alone.”

The words tasted like iron. Ugly and sharp and true. She braced for pity, for retreat — for anything but what came next. He didn’t say a word. He stepped in and wrapped his arms around her.

Not tentative. Not crushing. Solid. Like bracing her frame against the storm screaming through the walls. She went rigid first — muscles coiled, breath locked — but he didn’t let go. Didn’t force. Just held her, silent and sure, until the fight bled out of her shoulders and her fists uncurled against his chest.

“You’re safe,” he murmured into her hair. “Right here. Right now.”

The words clawed at her throat. She hated how much she wanted to believe them.

“Thank you,” he added softly. “For trusting me with that.”

When she finally pulled back, the storm had shifted. Still angry, still loud — but rolling east, like it had burned through the worst of itself. He slid his hands down her arms, not gripping, just anchoring.

“Come on,” he said quietly.

“Where?”

“Couch.”

“You trying to get me horizontal already?”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “Trying to get you comfortable before the ceiling caves in.”

“Smooth save.”

“Wasn’t a save.”

She huffed and let him lead her into the living room anyway.

The apartment wasn’t much. A thrifted sofa from the 90s, secondhand coffee table scarred by rings, mismatched family photos on beige walls. It smelled faintly of basil and rain-soaked asphalt.

The balcony doors hummed with wind. Lightning flared white behind thin curtains. Somewhere above, a neighbor’s footsteps pounded across creaky floors, muffled by thunder.

She curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under herself. He sat at the other end — close but not crowding — arm resting along the back, silent gravity pulling the air tighter.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly.

“Am not.”

His look made her sigh. “Fine. Maybe.”

“Breathe with me.”

“Why?”

“Humor me.” He waited. “In.”

She inhaled, sharp.

“Hold.”

Her chest trembled.

“Out.”

By the third breath, her jaw loosened. By the fifth, her shoulders dropped.

“There you are,” he murmured, thumb brushing her knuckles. “Better?”

“A little.”

“Good girl.”

Heat pooled low in her stomach. She hated that it landed there. “You say that too much.”

“And you like it too much.”

“Do not.”

“Do.”

Her mouth twitched despite herself.

His hand slid up, cupping her jaw. Calloused thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, slow and deliberate.

“Trust me?” he asked quietly.

“Define trust.”

“Let me,” he said simply. “You don’t have to think.”

“Dangerous.”

“Only if you fight me.”

“Guaranteed.”

His grin broke slow and sure. “Hands.”

She hesitated. Then gave them to him.

“Good girl.”

He raised her wrists above her head, resting them against the sofa arm — not tied, not trapped, just still. “You can stop me anytime,” he murmured, voice dipping low enough to vibrate in her bones. “Say ‘red’ and I’m done. Clear?”

“Clear as Crystal.”

“Good.”

His free hand traced slow from her wrist down her arm, over her shoulder, pausing at her waist. Heavy enough to ground, light enough to tease. Her breath hitched.

“You’re shaking again.”

“Your fault.”

“Maybe.”

His mouth brushed her throat — testing first, then firmer. A scrape of teeth sharp enough to draw a gasp. He soothed it with his tongue, kissed lower, then bit again, deliberate this time.

“You’re—” she gasped, breaking into a laugh. “You’re leaving marks.”

“Good.”

“Cocky.”

“Marking.”

“Cheesy.” She grinned. 

“You matter.”

“Not this again,” she groaned.

“Until you believe it.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“I won’t.” His teeth grazed her collarbone. “Green?”

“Green,” she breathed.

“Good girl.”

His hand slipped under her shirt, rough palm against warm skin, thumb tracing lazy circles along her stomach. Not rushing, just exploring. Her muscles fluttered under the touch.

“You want me to stop?” he asked.

Silence.

“Say it,” he pressed.

“…No.”

“No what?”

Her throat worked. “No, Sir.”

“Good girl.”

The kiss came hungry and slow, like they’d been holding it back for weeks. He didn’t take; he waited. When she leaned in first, he met her halfway — teeth catching her lower lip in a quick nip that drew a startled sound she couldn’t smother. He soothed it with his tongue, deepened the kiss until the storm outside blurred to white noise.

When he finally pulled back, breath uneven, his forehead rested against hers.

“You’re smiling,” he murmured.

“Shut up.”

“Not denying it.”

“Still shut up.”

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

“Good girl.”

“You say that too much.”

“And you like it too much.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe’s progress.”

The storm eased to steady rain. Their breathing slowed with it, tension loosening without vanishing.

She looked at him then — at the faint grin tugging at his mouth, at the patience in his eyes she didn’t know how to hold. Something inside her shifted. Not healed. Not gone. Just… different. This time she didn’t try to joke her way out of it.

 

Last of the kitchen adventures, unless you want more...

 

She didn’t hear his truck pull into the driveway. Rain against the window muffled everything, soft percussion on glass, and by the time she heard the hinge creak it was too late. The door was closed but not locked — she hadn’t bothered, hands full, rushing to get the peppers chopped before the onions burned.

“You ever consider locking this?” His voice came quiet and low, steady like it always was. Not scolding, just… present.

She jumped anyway, knife freezing mid-slice. “Jesus Christ.”

“Not quite.” Boots thudded soft against the floor, slow and deliberate. He wasn’t hurrying. He never hurried. “Door was closed. Not locked.”

“That doesn’t mean come in.”

“Doesn’t mean stay out.”

She shook her head, muttered something about boundaries, and went back to the board. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re distracted.” Close now, just behind her shoulder. That voice right in her ear without even trying. “You cut better when you’re focused.”

“You here to eat or critique my technique?”

“Both.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re defensive.” His arm brushed hers when he reached for the spoon, smooth, deliberate. “Onions are already in?”

“Yes. And garlic. And— you’re late.”

“I said I’d be here for dinner. Didn’t say when.”

“You could’ve texted.”

“You could’ve locked the door.”

Her kitchen smelled like home. Onions already soft in the pan, garlic just starting to brown, bell peppers waiting their turn. Steam curled up toward the ceiling, mixing with the rain tapping outside. Her space was smaller than his, warmer, older — everything mismatched and a little worn, but hers in every way that mattered.

He looked around like he was memorizing it. The dent in the stove. The towel looped through the drawer handle. The spice rack she never bothered to organize. Little pieces of her life laid out in plain sight and somehow more intimate than anything they’d done so far.

“Shoes,” she said suddenly, sliding peppers into the sizzling pan.

He glanced down. “What about them?”

“Off.”

His brow lifted slow. “Excuse me?”

“No boots in my kitchen.”

“Payback?”

“Absolutely.”

He huffed, toeing them off anyway. Socks on linoleum. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

“Liar.”

They moved around each other easily, no map but somehow never colliding. She stirred, he seasoned. He reached for salt, she drained pasta. The last time they cooked together — his pristine kitchen, her chaos everywhere — hung between them like a memory neither dared say out loud.

“You always move this fast when you cook?” he asked, leaning against the counter, watching her work.

“I’m hungry.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“Bossy.”

“Strict.”

She smirked. “You keep saying that like it’s supposed to be attractive.”

“Isn’t it?”

Her heart skipped in her chest before she could stop it. “Maybe.”

The sauce thickened, basil softening into the tomato, steam clouding the window above the sink. He tasted it first, slow and measured, then set the spoon down like it was fact.

“Perfect.”

She snatched the spoon, stole her own taste, and hummed thoughtfully. “Needs more garlic.”

“Doesn’t.”

“Does.”

“Doesn’t.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re wrong.”

“Wanna bet?”

His mouth curved. “What are the stakes?”

“Bragging rights.”

“Boring.” He leaned closer, voice quieter. “If I’m right, you follow my instructions for the rest of dinner.”

“And if I’m right?”

“You still follow my instructions,” he said, calm and certain. “But cocky.”

Her laugh broke out before she could bite it back. “Fine. Try it.”

He did. Took another taste, slow and deliberate, like he knew exactly what he was doing to her nerves. Set the spoon down again. “Perfect.”

“Cocky.”

“Strict,” he corrected, stepping closer. “And you like it.”

She didn’t notice him grab the towel at first. He just… watched her, silent, while she minced parsley down to a fine pile. Watched her shoulders tighten the moment she paused to think. Watched the way she shook herself out of it — like she hated being caught still.

“Don’t,” she said when she finally saw the towel in his hand.

“Trust exercise,” he murmured.

“I didn’t agree to—”

“Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

There was a beat. Two. Then she obeyed. The towel slipped soft over her face, tied loose but sure. Darkness washed the kitchen out. Everything sharpened. The smell of basil and garlic, the rain outside, his quiet breathing somewhere just behind her.

“Hands on the counter,” he said, voice lower now.

Her palms flattened against laminate, cool and steady. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re overthinking.”

“I like knowing what’s coming.”

“Not tonight.”

He didn’t move right away. Just stood close, heat at her back, letting her find her breath again. His hand settled at the small of her back — steady, grounding — while the other lifted something soft to her lips.

“Open,” he murmured.

Warm bread brushed her mouth, butter melting on her tongue. She bit, chewed slow.

“Better?” he asked.

“Might be.”

“Still rushing?”

“No.”

“Good girl.”

Heat coiled low in her stomach, sharp and sweet. “You say that too much.”

“You like it too much.”

He fed her spoonfuls of sauce after that. One at a time. His voice a steady thread guiding her through it — taste this, guess that, slower. She got most of them right. Basil. Oregano. A hint of cinnamon she almost missed.

Each right answer earned quiet praise. Each hesitation drew a firmer command.

“Slower.”

“Yes, Sir.”

It slipped out before she could stop it.

He stilled. Then leaned close, mouth by her ear. “Say it again.”

Her throat worked. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl.”

The words landed like a weight, not heavy but anchoring. When he finally untied the towel, the world hit sharper — light, color, scent all flooding back. He stood close, steady eyes on hers. Quiet. Unyielding.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured.

“Thinking.”

“About?”

“Whether this is smart.”

“And?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Want me to help you decide?”

Her voice barely carried. “Maybe.”

Dinner finished itself after that. Pasta tossed with sauce, bread torn by hand. They ate at the counter, shoulders brushing, banter softer now, something warmer threading through it.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said finally.

“What’d you expect?”

“Someone who’d push.”

“I know better.”

“And if I never tell you?”

“I’ll wait"

She didn't know why, but she believed he would. 

Dishes were done after — his insistence, her reluctant compliance. They lingered in the kitchen anyway, leaning against opposite counters, rain soft on the windows.

“You always this patient?” she asked.

“Only when it matters.”

“And this… matters?”

“You matter.”

The words hit harder than she wanted them to.

“You’re infuriating,” she whispered.

“You’re stubborn.”

“Bossy.”

“Strict.”

“Impossible.”

“Patient.”

“Annoying.”

“Worth it.”

The silence hummed, fragile and electric.

“Say it again,” she murmured.

“Worth it,” he said softer. “Every layer.”

The kiss didn’t explode. It unfolded like silk. Slow and certain, the kind that tasted like promise more than heat — though heat threaded through it anyway. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek, giving her every chance to pull back. She didn’t. She leaned in first.

When they parted, foreheads pressed together, neither spoke for a long moment.

“Still think it’s a bad idea?” he asked quietly.

“Ask me tomorrow.”

“I will.”

They stayed in the kitchen. Not because they had to — but because neither of them wanted to leave.

For the first time in longer than she could remember, she didn’t feel the need to run.

 

 

 

The knock came soft — two quick taps, a pause, then nothing. She was early, which meant she’d been pacing her apartment for half an hour, hyping herself up for this.

When he opened the door, he leaned casually against the frame, one hand braced above his head. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbow, collar open, no tie — casual, but calculated.

“Evening,” he said, voice low, smooth, and irritatingly calm.

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s your ‘I’m about to ruin my night’ voice.”

He smiled faintly. “Am I wrong?”

“Never are,” she muttered, stepping past him into the apartment.

“Shoes off,” he said immediately, not unkind but leaving no room for debate.

She stopped, halfway to the kitchen, and looked down at her sneakers. “Seriously? I’m about to wreck your kitchen and you’re worried about footprints?”

“Not footprints,” he replied, closing the door behind her with a soft click. “Control.”

Her brow arched. “Control of what? My feet?”

“Of you.”

A flush crept up her neck — infuriatingly, he’d said it like a simple fact, not a boast. “You just… order people to strip at the door?”

“Only you,” he said mildly.

“Oh, well, lucky me.”

“Shoes,” he repeated, calm as ever.

She waited, testing him. The silence stretched. He didn’t move, didn’t explain, didn’t bargain — just looked at her, patient and unyielding.

Finally she huffed and kicked them off, tossing them toward the wall. “Happy now?”

His mouth curved. “Very.”

The kitchen was the kind of space most chefs would kill for — warm wood cabinets, marble counters, stainless steel appliances polished to a mirror shine. It smelled faintly of citrus and something darker, like cedar. She padded in barefoot, instantly aware of every cool tile under her toes.

Her eyes caught on the plain brown box sitting on the island, tied with black ribbon. Harmless, until she saw the glint in his eyes.

She froze mid-step. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.”

“That better not be what I think it is.”

“It’s exactly what you think it is,” he said, crossing to lean on the opposite counter, arms folded. “Open it.”

She approached like it might bite. “You’re not even gonna pretend this is reasonable?”

“Not my style.”

“God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, eyes flicking deliberately to her bare feet, “here you are.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. Damn him.

She untied the ribbon, flung it aside, and peeled back the flaps. The smell hit her first — sweet, sharp, savory — none of it making sense together.

“…You’re insane.”

“Creative,” he corrected.

“No, this is criminal.”

“Semantics.”

She reached inside and pulled out the first item: fresh chicken breast.

“Okay, not bad. Actual food. We’re off to a good start.”

“Protein,” he said mildly.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

The next item was black garlic. She whistled low. “Oh, fancy. This I can work with.”

“See? A gift.”

Fresh basil followed. Her brows lifted. “Are you… being nice? Did you hit your head?”

“Balance,” he said, smirk faint. “Don’t thank me yet.”

Then came the chaos.

Pickled watermelon rind.

She squinted at it. “…Why does this even exist?”

“Sweet. Sour. Crunch.”

“Wrong.”

Ghost pepper hot sauce.

She stared at the bottle like it might spontaneously combust. “You want me to cry, don’t you?”

He arched a brow. “Would I do that?”

“Yes!”

“Observation,” he murmured. “Not insult.”

And finally, from the bottom of the box: a puff of pink cotton candy, slightly squished.

She looked at it. Then at him. “This is… a joke.”

“Dessert.”

“This is childhood trauma.”

“That too,” he said smoothly.

She dropped the lid shut. “I can’t work with this.”

“You can.”

“I refuse.”

“You accept.”

“I—” She caught herself mid-retort. “Wait. What happens if I fail?”

He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell cedar and soap and danger. “Then I punish you.”

Her stomach flipped. “…Define punish.”

His grin was wicked. “Oh, I’ll define it later.”

He set the timer for forty-five minutes. “Begin.”

The second it beeped, she was off — tearing through his pantry, muttering flavor combinations like incantations, pacing between counter and stove in a frenzy.

“Chicken, garlic, basil — fine,” she rattled. “But watermelon rind? And cotton candy?”

“Creativity test,” he said, leaning against the island like a cat watching a mouse.

“Sadism test,” she muttered.

“Observation,” he replied, smug.

Chaos followed.

Flour clouds. Spice jars raining from shelves. Cotton candy dissolving into a sticky glaze that dripped down her fingers. She seared chicken, caramelized garlic, crushed basil like a madwoman. At one point, she uncorked the ghost pepper sauce and instantly regretted it — coughing violently as fumes hit her throat.

“You alright?” he asked, suspiciously calm.

“Fine!” she choked. “Totally fine!”

“Need water?”

“Need you to stop laughing!”

She stole a taste of the glaze with her finger. He caught her.

“Rule,” he said, voice dropping. “No tasting until I do.”

“Guess I’m breaking rules tonight,” she teased, sucking the sugar off her fingertip.

His eyes darkened, but he said nothing. That silence was worse than any lecture.

Halfway through, the knife slipped. A sharp hiss escaped her lips as a bead of red welled on her fingertip.

He was there before she could blink — steady hands, low voice, calm cutting through her panic.

“Hold still.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Humor me.”

He cleaned and wrapped it with maddening precision, thumb brushing her knuckle just a fraction too long. Her breath caught.

“You good?” he asked softly.

“…Yeah.”

“Then finish.”

By the end, she was wrecked. Hair wild, apron streaked, arms trembling from adrenaline. The kitchen looked like a crime scene — splattered sauce, overturned spice jars, sugar crusting every surface.

But the plate she set before him?

Stunning. Artful swirls of basil oil and pink-tinged glaze. Chicken perfectly seared, watermelon rind arranged like edible confetti.

She bowed low, mock-dramatic. “Your majesty.”

He studied it. Cut slowly. Lifted a bite to his mouth. Chewed.

Paused.

Her sarcasm cracked into nerves. “Do I need to call poison control?”

He set the fork down. Folded his hands. Met her gaze.

“…Beautiful presentation.”

“Thank you?”

“Truly stunning.”

“…Thanks?”

“And possibly the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”

She gaped. “Excuse me?!”

“An assault on the senses.”

“You gave me cotton candy and ghost pepper! What did you expect?!”

“Adaptability.”

“Oh, I adapted. I adapted hard.”

“And you failed spectacularly.”

He rose, slow and deliberate, every inch of him radiating calm authority. She backed up instinctively until her hips hit the counter.

“So… punishment?” she breathed.

His smile was pure sin. “Oh, yes.”

He stepped closer, tilting her chin up with a single finger.

“You made art,” he murmured. “But art should never taste like regret.”

Her laugh bubbled out, half-nerves, half-thrill. “Unfair.”

“That’s the point.”

He stepped back suddenly, infuriatingly composed. “Clean my kitchen.”

She blinked. “…That’s it?”

“Not quite.” His voice dropped low. “Shoes off, apron on, no talking while you clean. You follow every rule.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I double it.”

She swallowed. “You’re evil.”

He arched a brow. “Observation, not insult.”

The way he said it made her shiver.

She muttered under her breath as she grabbed a sponge. “Sadist.”

Behind her, his chuckle was rich and unrepentant.

“Careful,” he murmured. “That’s almost talking.”

The quiet that followed was electric — her scrubbing, his watchful presence behind her, the low hum of tension between them. Every time she bent to pick something up, she felt his eyes on her. Every clink of dishes sounded loud. By the time she wrung out the last rag, her nerves were strung tight as wire.

He stepped forward then, close enough for his breath to ghost her ear.

“Done?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Good girl.”

Two words. Her stomach flipped.

He took her hand — the bandaged one — and kissed it slow, deliberate, a soft contrast to the steady command in his voice.“Now,” he murmured, leading her toward the counter where the cotton candy had sat earlier, “let me show you what dessert really tastes like.”

The kitchen looked like a dessert war zone — flour dusted the counters, sugar crystals sparkled on the floor, and the faint hum of the oven was drowned out by laughter.

“Are you sure you’ve ever baked before?” she asked, leaning against the counter with a wicked grin. “Because right now it looks like the chocolate gave up halfway through and died dramatically.”

Sir stirred the bowl in deliberate, unhurried motions, refusing to look at her. “Focus on your pie. Unless you want to embarrass yourself when I win.”

“Win?” She barked out a laugh, waving a flour-coated spoon in his direction. “Please. I’ve seen Pinterest fails prettier than what you’ve got going on over there.”

Finally, he glanced up — slow, dark eyes full of mock warning — and his voice dropped to that tone that always made her spine straighten. “Careful.”

She raised a brow, feigning innocence. “Careful of what? Your fragile ego?”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he reached across the counter and swiped a dollop of whipped cream onto the tip of her nose.

Her gasp echoed through the kitchen. “Did you just—?”

“Mm-hm.” He licked the spoon, casual as anything.

“That’s war!” She lunged, snatching a fistful of flour and flinging it at him. The white puff hit his chest and drifted down in a powdery cloud.

The kitchen went quiet.

Sir set down the spoon with deliberate slowness, wiping the flour from his shirt. Then he stepped toward her, each footfall heavy enough to make her pulse jump.

She backed up, laughing nervously until her hip hit the counter. “Sir…?”

He tilted his head, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “You think you can get away with that?”

“Um… maybe?”

“Not even close.” He closed the last inch between them, bracing one hand beside her and swiping the whipped cream from her nose with his thumb. “Messy,” he murmured, voice soft and low. “And mouthy. Dangerous combination.”

Her laughter faded to something breathless. “Maybe I like being dangerous.”

His grin softened, playful melting into protective. “I know you do. And I love that you trust me enough to show me.”

For once, she didn’t have a sarcastic comeback.

The kiss came like a spark hitting gasoline — sudden and hot, his hands framing her face as hers curled into his shirt. He kissed her like he was claiming her and comforting her all at once, until the only sound was the oven timer beeping in the background.

When they finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, she whispered, “So… who wins the cook-off?”

He chuckled, tucking her against his chest. “Me. Always me.”

“Rigged,” she muttered into his shirt.

“Life’s rigged,” he murmured, wrapping his arms tighter around her. “But you’re safe. That’s what matters.”

 

 

The hospital called a little before 5 this morning. She's passed on...gone.

I keep saying It, telling family, friends, loved ones...

But I just don't believe it...it feels so unreal. 

Thank you all who kept her in your thoughts and prayers. She's a peace now, with the angels gone before her. 

I'm sorry I haven't written or kept in touch...

The last few months have been hard to say the least. Personal issues, and now I'm losing my mom. She went to the er on Xmas eve with double covid pneumonia, and had to be put on a ventilator a few hours ago. They are giving her 72 hours, but not much hope for a turn around. 

If you pray, please say a prayer of peace for her. She is alone in covid icu and no one can visit her. Also pray for me, she put me in charge of everything, I can't do what she did! She was superwoman, a leader...I'll never be able to live up to her wishes. The next few days are going to be so hard. So not prepared for this. I'm just numb. Scared. 

 

Hope everyone's Xmas was full of good memories. Cherish those you love, you never know when it's the last time you see or talk to them. 

 

Thanks in advance for prayers.