Request: I always imagine that Chris eats like a bear lol so I was thinking: Maybe we have reader cooking Chris a large meal, having observed how much he eats and therefore knowing the perfect amount to cook for the two of them, for dinner. However, Chris is surprised and touched by this because they’ve only been going out a short while.
RE8 era
The first time you saw Chris eat, you’d genuinely feared for the structural integrity of the fork in his hand.
Not because he was aggressive, not at all, but because the man ate like a starving freight train. Controlled, deliberate, but fast. Focused. Like he was fuelling up for a new war, not having a dinner at your local diner after a late shift. You’d blinked, and the steak had disappeared. Two sides, gone. Breadbasket? obliterated. Pie? You hadn’t even realised he’d ordered dessert, and yet it was already reduced to crumbs on the plate.
You’d laughed back then, softly, under your breath, and he’d caught you. Given you that amused, heavy lidded look of his, chin tilted slightly as if to say “what?”
“I just think it’s cute,” you’d told him.
Chris had raised a brow. “That I eat like a bear?”
“Well, a disciplined bear.”
His laugh, rough and low, had made your stomach flip, even though you’d barely touched your food. And that had been only the second time you’d gone out together.
Now? Tonight?
Tonight was your fifth “non-date” that definitely counted as a date, and this time, you’d invited him over for dinner. Real dinner. At your place. No fancy clothes, no takeout. No BS. Just food. Homemade, hearty, and a lot of it.
Because one thing had become crystal clear in the short time you’d known him. Chris Redfield needed to eat for three. And for some reason, the thought of feeding him, properly, intentionally, had filled you with an odd sense of satisfaction. Something intimate. Something grounding.
You weren’t trying to impress him.
You just wanted him to sit down, relax, and for once, maybe, feel looked after.
Your small kitchen smelled divine by the time he arrived.
Garlic, rosemary, slow-cooked meat, caramelised onions, the kind of scent that hugged the air and clung to your clothes. Youd made herb-roasted chicken thighs, golden and crispy. Honeyed carrots. Creamy mash. Thick gravy from the pan drippings. Homemade sourdough rolls warming in the oven. And a buttery apple crumble sitting on the windowsill like something out of a fairy tale.
You weren’t nervous. But you were aware, of the effort, the timing, the little voice in your head hoping it wasn’t too much.
He knocked on your door right on time, of course.
You opened it, apron still tied, hair a bit mussed from the kitchen heat.
And there he stood. Chris Redfield. Six feet of bulk, beard, and probably five concealed weapons, wearing a soft black t-shirt and jeans that looked like sin on his thighs. His expression warmed the second he saw you.
“Hey,” he said, low and gruff as ever.
“Hi,” you smiled. “Come in. dinner’s just about ready.”
He stepped inside, taking in the smell with a slow inhale.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “you didn’t have to-“
“I wanted to,” you cut in, flicking off the oven and tossing the apron onto a hook. “And you’re going to sit your tactical ass down and let me feed you, understood?”
Chris blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. “Understood.”
You served him a plate that could’ve fed a small army. Chicken thighs piled high, potatoes like clouds, vegetables so soft they practically melted, and gravy ladled over everything.
You own plate was about half the size, because you knew his appetite, had watched it, noted the rhythm of it. Noticed how he always finished everything without complaint, and yet sometimes still looked…… unsatisfied. Like he could’ve eaten more if it wasn’t rude.
So this time, you gave him permission. Quietly. Thoughtfully. With a plate full of love.
He didn’t speak for a while, just ate, slowly at first, like he didn’t want to seem rude, then with increasing comfort. He made a soft, surprised noise after. The first bite of chicken.
“This is….. damn,” he said, mouth half-full. “You really cooked.”
You shrugged. “I had a hunch you eat like a bear after hibernation.”
He paused, eyes flicking to yours.
“I mean that with love.”
His lips twitched, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s accurate.”
You grinned, cutting into your carrots. “I figured. So I made enough for you to have seconds. Or thirds. Maybe fourths.”
Chris gave a soft exhale. It might’ve been a laugh. It might’ve been something else.
For a man who spent most of his time commanding rooms and barking orders, it was the quiet moments that fascinated you, the way his eyes softened, how his shoulders slowly dropped. Like armour being set aside.
He finished his plate clean, then hesitated.
You stood and wordlessly brought him seconds.
He looked up at you as you set the plate down, something unreadable in his gaze.
“Thank you,” he said, and his voice was different now. Quieter. Almost hoarse.
You blinked, taken slightly aback by the way he looked at you, like you’d just done something far more intimate than roast chicken. Like you’d handed him something fragile. Or important.
“It’s just dinner,” you said, smiling gently.
Chris tilts his head. “No. its not.”
You didn’t speak for a moment, letting the silence stretch. Letting him feel it. Letting yourself feel it too.
“I noticed how much you eat,” you said finally. “That’s all.”
“No one’s ever noticed before,” he murmured. “Or…. They did, but never like this.”
You watched him take another bite, slower now. As if savouring not just the food, but the moment. The meaning behind it.
After dinner, you both sat on the sofa, nursing warm mugs of tea while the apple crumble cooked. Chris looked full. Satisfied. Sleepy, even.
You watched him lean back, one hand resting on his stomach, eyes half-lidded.
“Alright, bear?” you teased.”
“Could hibernated right here.”
“On my sofa?”
He cracked an eye open, “Your lap’s softer.”
Your heart stuttered.
“Cheeky.”
Chris smiled, a real one this time. Lopsided. Private. Like you were the only one allowed to see it.
A long pause stretched between you. The air warm. The soft sound of the city beyond you window.
Then: “can I ask you something?”
You looked at him. “Anything.”
Chris sat forward slightly, mug in both hands. “Why’d you do all this? I mean, its only been a few weeks, you didn’t have to…”
You smiled softly. “Because I like you. And I wanted you to feel…. I don’t know. cared for. Nourished. Like you could stop running for a bit.”
Chris didn’t answer straight away. He just stared at you, eyes dark and steady, something unspoken blooming behind them.
The he set his mug down, leaned in, and kissed you, slow and warm, like molasses. Like gratitude and yearning and something dangerous growing deeper by the second.
And when he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, he whispered:
“You’re dangerous, you know that?”
You laughed, breathlessly. “Me?”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “You’re gonna ruin me with this.”
