One of the ideas that always crosses my mind... is what Simón would be like being a homebody and trying to live a quiet life. Honestly, I'm not good in the kitchen, lol. So I decided to connect one of my problems and turn it into a story by projecting myself into it. 😝
♱ ⋆༺𓆩🦇𓆪༻⋆♱
cw: soft domestic intimacy, quiet affection, kitchen scene, non-sexual touch
"No need… but you did..."
The sound of oil sizzling filled the kitchen.
It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence.
It was the kind of silence that felt… lived in.
You moved carefully, focused, making sure nothing burned. It was his favorite food—or at least, the closest thing you had managed to make after asking him indirectly, because of course… he would never say it outright. You were trying your best; cooking wasn’t really your thing, but you wanted to do something for him. To take care of him, even just a little.
You didn’t hear the door.
But you knew he was there.
It was that feeling.
That presence.
“You’re cooking…” his deep voice broke the air from the counter. Not a question—just a statement.
You turned slightly, a small smile on your lips.
There he was.
Leaning against the surface, arms resting casually, mask still on, looking at you like he hadn’t just had a long, shitty day.
“I’m trying,” you said. “No promises.”
He didn’t answer right away.
He just watched you.
He always did that.
Like he was memorizing things he’d never say out loud.
You turned back to what you were doing, stirring gently. You could feel his gaze on your back, constant… but not uncomfortable. Never uncomfortable.
A few seconds later, you heard footsteps.
Slow.
He got close enough for his presence to settle behind you. He didn’t touch you. Not at first.
But he was there.
“You’re gonna burn yourself,” he muttered, stepping closer.
“I won’t,” you replied softly, raising your hand without turning around, as if to tell him he didn’t need to come any closer.
And then, you felt it.
His hand brushed yours, barely, guiding it slightly away from the direct heat of the pan. Firm, but careful.
“There,” he said.
His voice had dropped just a little. Closer… softer.
You turned off the stove after a moment, letting out a quiet sigh.
“Done… I think.”
You didn’t turn around right away, unsure of the possible disaster you had just made.
And then he moved.
He pressed his chest against your back—firm, warm. His breath brushed against your neck as he inhaled softly, taking in the scent coming from the pot.
“You made a mess,” he murmured against your shoulder, that dry tone… tired, but softer than usual.
“Oh, really? That’s what you’re worried about?” you said, half amused, half offended.
He let out a low grunt, not fully answering. His hands moved forward, covering yours, guiding them slightly… like he didn’t quite trust you not to burn yourself.
He leaned in just a bit more, trapping you gently between him and the stove.
“You didn’t have to,” he added quietly.
But he didn’t move away.
“Even if it tastes bad… I’ll eat it,” he murmured, close to your ear.
There was a small pause, he didn’t move right away.
Like he was thinking about it, and then…
His lips brushed your cheek. Barely. Slow. Measured.
“But if something happens to me…” he added a few seconds later, not pulling away completely, “I’m blaming you.”
He didn’t sound serious.
But he didn’t let go either.
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I love this man, please let it be real and marry me. Nsksnk
