Stiles only gets a glimpse of the pots simmering away on the stove without getting any real idea of what's in them, but the smell of the marinara hits him fully in the face, and his mouth waters as he immediately reels back, pressing himself back against the wall. He's two parts excited, one part horribly guilty, and he can't tell whether he's more horny or hungry, so all in all, it's a bit of an uncomfortable jumble of sensations at once.
Guilt is winning, though, which is why he's pulling Scott forward by his apron strings to press their bodies together, devil take the hindmost in regard to tomato stains, instead of launching himself into the kitchen the way he wants to. "Hey, no. There's no way anything that smells that good is going to taste even remotely gross." He brushes the tip of his nose against Scott's, against his cheek, hands slipping into the apron pockets so he can bracket Scott's hips with his fingers.
"I really only saw, like, utensils and not any of the actual food, so it's still going to be a surprise. I promise." There are only a few things that could go with marinara, so Stiles is already like 99% sure he knows what they're having at this point, but still. He hates that stress wrinkle, and the terse set of Scott's mouth that means he's trying really hard to make everything perfect, and he's already doubting himself. Because of Stiles.
"I'm sorry for peeking. I got bored and antsy watching the Golden Girls by myself, and- well." He doesn't need to explain, Scott knows how he is. He's actually contrite now, rubbing the stress wrinkle away with his thumb and pressing apologetic kisses to Scott's jaw. "Please don't order pizza?"
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