Luke hums like it’s a compliment and starts chopping, while I crack the eggs, whisking them with milk and a pinchof salt. I talk him through the rest of the prep as he cuts up the veggies.
“I didn’t know breakfast came with a science lecture,” he mutters.
“Cooking is about instinct,” I say, sliding next to him as he adds chopped spinach to the mix. I take the bowl of veggies he’s cut up and move over to the stove. “And seasoning is from the heart.”
“So you said yesterday,” Luke murmurs, stepping in close behind me. His arms slip around my waist, his chin resting lightly on my shoulder. “You must have a lot of heart, Coach.”
I still, the spatula pausing mid-stir.
His cheek presses between my shoulder blades—warm, solid, content. The sleeves of my sweater brush against my stomach where he’s wrapped around me, way too long on him. I don’t need to see him to know he looks ridiculous and perfect at the same time.
“You trying to butter me up so I go easy on you?” I ask, voice low.
“Nope,” he says, muffled against my back. “Just appreciating the chef.”
I exhale, forcing my focus back to the pan before I burn the omelet.
“And the food?”
He squeezes slightly. “Also good. But mostly the chef.”
“Definitely distracting as hell,” I mutter.
“Mm,” he hums, smug. “You say that like it’s not a compliment.”
“It’s absolutely a compliment,” I admit. “Just… an inconvenient one.”
His arms tighten a little more, and then his hands start to roam.
Curious palms sliding under the hem of my shirt over my abs, fingers slipping under the band of my sweats until his fingers are dragging along my boxers. Warm, slow sweeps that make my breath hitch and my cock harden again.
“You’re gonna start something,” I warn, voice low.
He noses the space between my shoulder blades. “I already did.”
I tighten my hold on the spatula again, trying to focus, but his hands are everywhere now—palming my hips, fingertips skimming along my waistband, teasing the sensitive skin just above it.
“Luke,” I say, half-growl, half-plea.
He doesn’t stop. Just hums against my back like he’s innocent, like he’snotcurrently making it impossible for me to remember that there’s a burner still on beneath the pan.
He cups me through the fabric of my sweats and my eyes drop shut, my full attention on the way his fingers wrap around me and stroke softly. I arch into his touch with a groan, the food completely forgotten.
Then the smell of burning egg hits my nose.
“Shit,” I mutter, turning the burner off and moving the pan to a cold burner. “You burned breakfast.”
He scoffs and presses a kiss between my shoulder blades. “You're the cook, you burned breakfast.”
I narrow my eyes as I twist in his hold. He grins up at me, completely unapologetic, sweater slipping off one shoulder, eyes bright with mischief.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re insufferable?”
He hums. “All the time.”
“Well, they’reright.”
“And you’re hard again,” he says cheerfully, sliding his hand between us and patting the front of my sweats with a wink.
