Executive Chef
'Ant' Tenna/Reader (Ao3 link)
Summary: You and (mostly) Tenna cook. It goes...surprisingly well?
---------
The second he stepped into your apartment wearing that apron, you knew this was a mistake. Not a regular, mild mistake — not the kind you could laugh off later with a joke and a shrug — but a deep, bone-set, slowly unfolding kind of mistake. The kind that starts with a smirk and ends with something smoking. He didn’t even say anything at first. Just stood in your doorway with his sleeves rolled up and that apron tied neatly around his waist, navy blue with “EXECUTIVE CHEF” stitched across the front in bold, slightly smug embroidery. The only thing louder than the apron was his mouth — which, thankfully, hadn’t opened yet.
But the look in his posture said everything. That sideways tilt of the head. The smug weight in his shoulders. The absolute certainty in how he hung his antennae like he was about to conduct an orchestra with them. You were already filled with dread, and he hadn’t even stepped past the doormat.
“This is going to be a disaster,” you said, folding your arms tightly as he breezed into the kitchen like he lived here.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” he replied, stretching his arms above his head in a way that made you want to throw the rolling pin at him immediately. “I thought you wanted to bake.”
“I do. I didn’t expect you to take over.”
“I haven’t taken over,” he said, turning to you with a grin that meant nothing good. “I’m collaborating.” He reached into the grocery bag — your grocery bag — and pulled out the rolling pin with a flourish like it was a stage prop. He spun it in his hands, clearly posing for an audience that didn’t exist.
“...That’s worse,” you muttered.
“Admit it. You’re intrigued.”
You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud, but he wasn’t entirely wrong. You were watching the chaos unfold with the kind of morbid fascination usually reserved for slow-motion car crashes or particularly unhinged reality shows. And Tenna, of course, operated on that exact wavelength. The only reason you didn’t wrestle the mixing bowl out of his hands on sight was because it was early, and you hadn’t fully accepted your fate yet.
He moved like he’d been here before — not just physically in your kitchen, but in this kind of space. Comfortable, deliberate. He was already unpacking the flour and sugar and checking the butter you’d left out on the counter. You noticed the moment his posture shifted from theatrical to critical. He poked the butter once. Then again.
“You didn’t let this soften…” he said, clearly horrified.
“I forgot.”
“You forgot?” He recoiled like you’d just confessed to a murder. “This isn’t amateur hour. This is baking. Precision. Timing. Elegance.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re being dramatic about butter.”
“I’m always dramatic. That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
You stared at him for a long second, then exhaled and stepped back. “Fine. What now, Chef?”
He cracked his knuckles like he was about to start a street fight, then rolled his shoulders with alarming confidence. “You’ve got cream, yes?”
“I—yeah?”
“And vinegar?”
“What—why—”
“Just get them.”
You didn’t bother questioning it further. You just opened the fridge and complied, mostly because he already had flour in a bowl and was working it like he’d done it a thousand times. Your hands were full of doubt, but his were already in motion.
You folded your arms again, this time leaning against the counter, watching him like a science experiment you weren’t sure would end without chemical burns. But here’s the thing: he didn’t mess it up. He didn’t fumble. He didn’t break a bowl or confuse salt for sugar. He moved with clean, practiced precision — butter chopped, dry ingredients whisked, cold cream and a splash of vinegar folded into the mix with neat, exact gestures. He didn’t even measure things wrong. He didn’t need to measure. He eyeballed the amounts and somehow got it all right on the first try.
You blinked slowly. “You’re... not bad at this.”
Tenna didn’t stop moving. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I thought you’d be the type to put raw eggs in the microwave.”
“Excuse me. That only happened once. And it was televised.”
“Of course it was.”
He wrapped the dough in plastic wrap, laid it on a plate, and set it aside with the kind of casual ease that should only belong to professional chefs or dangerously overconfident YouTubers. You couldn’t stop watching him. Something about seeing him competent — not loud, not improvising, but actually good at something mundane — was disorienting.
“I’m sorry,” you said finally. “Where did you even learn this?”
He wiped his hands on a dish towel with mechanical precision, as if the answer should’ve been obvious. “We had a cooking show.”
There was a beat of silence. You blinked.
“What.”
“Cooking show. Midday block. We aired between a live noise-punk set and a dubbed Godzilla courtroom drama. I hosted it. Sometimes I judged.” He picked up a lemon and began zesting it with calm, silent expertise. “Won a daytime award. Bronze fork. Very shiny.”
“You’re telling me you’ve had this skill the entire time and you let me believe you couldn’t boil water?”
Tenna shrugged without looking up. “It’s funnier when people expect me to fail.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, here we are. In your kitchen. Making pastry.”
You wanted to be annoyed. You really did. But watching him work — watching the way he shaped the dough, how quickly he assembled the filling without fumbling, how casually he tossed the sugar over the blueberries — you couldn’t help but be impressed. The lemon zest was measured, not excessive. He didn’t rush it. Didn’t show off. Just moved with quiet control.
“You miss it?” you asked after a moment
“The cooking show?” he clarified. He paused slightly, not long enough to feel heavy, just long enough to mean something. “Not really. It was filler. Nobody watched it for the food. I had to talk over a laugh track.”
“Still,” you said, quieter now, “you’re good at it.”
Tenna didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then, finally, “Not everything has to be a performance.”
The words caught you off guard. They didn’t sound rehearsed. They weren’t sharp or mocking. Just simple. And a little tired.
The oven beeped. He opened the door, slid the galette in with confident hands, then closed it. No flare. No grand reveal. Just the clean sound of a tray sliding into place.
“How long do we wait?” you asked, still stunned.
“Forty-five minutes.”
You blinked. “That’s it?”
“For the baking. The judgment comes later.”
“Excuse me?”
He leaned against the opposite counter, arms folded. “The crust. The filling. The balance. We’ll see if you followed instructions.”
“You gave yourself all the instructions!”
“Exactly,” he said. “That’s why I’m confident.”
You groaned, but you couldn’t help it — you laughed a little under your breath. It wasn’t performative, either. Just real. The smell of lemon and berries was already starting to fill the air. You poured yourself some water and leaned next to him, trying not to think too hard about the warmth creeping into the apartment. Or into your ribs.
When the timer went off, he moved first — grabbed the oven mitt, opened the door, and pulled the galette out in one clean motion. It was golden. Crisp at the edges. The fruit bubbled just slightly in the center.
It looked incredible.
You hated that.
Tenna cut a slice, placed it on a plate, and handed it to you like a challenge. You took a bite.
Paused.
“...Damn.”
He smirked.
“Okay. Fine. I’ll say it. You can cook.”
“I know.”
You glared. “I still don’t trust you near my microwave.”
“That's fair.”
He started cleaning up, quietly, without being asked. You watched him for a while, the way he moved around the kitchen like he’d always belonged in it. Like this wasn’t new. Like it wasn’t some fluke.
“I’ll make soufflé next time.” he said casually.
“No, you won’t.”
He didn’t argue.
Just smiled.
And you knew damn well he was already planning it.