Work Text:
You could hear the smoke alarm screeching even before you saw the spirals of smoke spilling out from under your apartment door. Flinging open the door, you spot a grey suited figure desperately fanning smoke away from the detector in the hallway while more billowed from a pan on your stove.
“Max?” you coughed, grateful that your home wasn’t burning the ground after all.
The man in the suit whirled around, your bright red apron tied over his immaculate clothing. “Uhh, hi babe. You weren’t supposed to be home yet.”
“Max Phillips, what in the hell are you doing?”
“Well, I was trying to make something for you, something I really liked to eat back before...you know,” he shrugged, “but your stove hates me apparently and decided to get hotter than you in that little negligee we got in Paris.”
The shrill beeping finally stopped and you giggled. “Babe, you don’t eat food.”
“I do sometimes,” Max pouted.
“Come here,” you gestured with open arms. Max steps into you, resting his chin on your head.
“I just know you’ve been really busy and stressed this week and I wanted to do something nice for you.”
You look up at him, surprised. “That’s the most thoughtful thing you’ve ever tried to do for me.”
He grunted, “Don’t get used to it. I just wanted to butter you up for later,” he waggled his dark eyebrows suggestively at you.
“I love you a lot Max, but please stop trying to cook me dinner, you suck,” you smile, stretching up to kiss him.
He grins wickedly. “Oh I suck, do I?” he chuckles as he throws you over his shoulder and heads for the bedroom, dinner forgotten.