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You always hear Thoma coming.
His laugh cuts through the lively thrum of the early-morning market, golden and bright. You only have to hear it to conjure the image of his green, green eyes crinkling at the edges with his smile.
It takes him forever to weave through the market’s colorful stalls, since he’s always pausing to chatter with an auntie or to slip a treat in one of the neighborhood children’s hands. At one point, you look up just in time for him disappear. A few moments later, he pops back up like a whopperflower. You snort, wondering which treat Momo—the market’s spoiled little pup, all thick black fur and sweet eyes—has coaxed from him today.
“You’re late,” you tell him when he slips into your stall. He trots up to you as you tuck plums—plump, glistening fruit as dark as the night sky—into Mika’s basket. She coughs to hide her laugh. You scowl as she drops you a sly wink before scurrying back to her stall.
Thoma winces, rubbing at the back of his neck with a big hand. “Ah, am I? Sorry, sorry! Chiyo needed some help with a permit!”
“Your usuals might be gone.”
“Aw, c'mon,” he says. There’s a hint of a pout on his lips, but you can tell he’s fighting the urge to smile. “I’m not that late.”
You hum your disagreement as you bundle turnips together by their thick, leafy stalks. “You sure?”
“Uh, yeah, pretty sure?”
When you glance at him, he’s got his head tilted to the side, his golden hair spilling over the prongs of his headband. Your chest aches.
“I saved you some,” you say, gesturing towards a basket half-hidden by your stool. “You know that.”
“You’re the best!”
Your cheeks heat. “I know,” you say, but from the way Thoma’s grin goes a little crooked, you know you’re caught. You look away, busying yourself with reorganizing some of your produce.
“Hey, what’re these?”
He’s got a big blossom cradled delicate in his hands, the petals sunset orange against the soft green of the stem.
“Beidou brought them,” you tell him. “I figured Lord Ayato would want to try them, with his whole thing about edible flowers.”
Thoma hums, running a finger along the ruffled edge of a petal. “Do you know how to cook them?”
You nod, eyes glued to his fingers as you nip at your bottom lip.
“Great,” he says cheerfully. “Come teach me.”
You give him a flat look, gesturing to your stall.
Thoma laughs. It takes root in your chest, blooms soft between your ribs. “I mean after you’re done!”
You sigh. “Alright.”
He beams at you. His jade eyes are shining, and you think of stained glass, how it catches the sunlight and makes it into something new. And then he’s heading off with a wave and a “see you soon!” that leaves you staring after him.
Across the way, shrouded by the flowers she sells, Mika doesn’t even try to hide her laugh.
Unsurprisingly, the Kamisato estate’s kitchen is unlike anything you’ve ever seen. It’s large, and you think if it weren’t for the little touches around it—herbs hanging to dry in bundles, each carefully tied with a little woven string; a well-used kettle by the fire; the clumsy rainbow stitching on the apron tucked into the corner—it would feel cavernous.
Also unsurprisingly, it is the cleanest kitchen you’ve ever seen.
And you are holding a threateningly sticky handful of leftover batter over the pristine counter.
Thoma just laughs.
“You know that I’m good at cleaning, right?” he asks, his hands on his hips as he watches you.
“Annoyingly so,” you tell him. “But don’t worry, there’s lots of little crevices on the counter that I can rub it into. Just to give you a challenge.”
“Aw, c'mon.”
“You deserve it!”
You forget, sometimes, that Thoma is a fighter. That he can be sweet and sharp in the same moment, a sheathed blade of a being.
The way he’s across the kitchen in a breath, his big hand closing around your wrist to tug you away from the counter and into him, is a stark reminder.
“Thoma!” you yelp, even as he steadies you.
He’s laughing again, his jade eyes dancing. He’s warm against you. It’s the soft heat of a banked fire, of embers still burning.
“Too slow,” he says.
“Cheater,” you grumble.
He just grins.
You don’t fight it as he cleans off your hand, batter smearing sticky across the cloth that he works delicately between your fingers. You bite down on a sharp breath as he sweeps over the tender flesh of your inner wrist.
His eyes flash to your face, a lightning strike of green. He studies you for a moment. You fight the urge to shy away.
Thoma smiles at you, and it’s soft-bellied with unbearable tenderness.
“Can I kiss you?”
Your cheeks heat. “Y—yeah.”
It’s slower than you’d expected. Thoma doesn’t rush; he moves in with steady, sweet intention, until you can feel the tide of his warm breath against your lips.
It’s you who closes the gap first. You push into the kiss, impatient as ever, and he rumbles out a low laugh against your lips, one big hand coming up to cup your cheek.
It’s chaste at first—a tentative exploration as you figure out how you fit together. You chase him when he pulls back with a nip to your lower lip, greedy for more. Greedy for him.
Thoma obliges. He’s warmer, now, a rekindling flame, and he presses harder into this kiss. There’s a brief fumble, a moment where you giggle into his mouth as you get into each other’s way. But then he kisses the breath from you, his thumb rubbing little circles on your nape. You fist your hands in his cropped jacket to pull him closer still.
You slot together more easily now. He nudges at your cheek with his nose playfully before kissing away your grumble. His tongue traces slick over your lips, the tip of it flickering between the small gap between them. You open for him without thought.
He takes what you give him, sliding his pink tongue to twine wet and warm around your own. You whine into his mouth, the sound almost embarrassing. He chivvies you backwards as he licks into your mouth greedily, coaxing you to slip your tongue into his mouth. Your grip on his jacket tightens as he sucks on your tongue, a heavy, wet pull of sensation.
You grunt as you run into the kitchen counter. Thoma pins you there, his hands heavy on your hips as he does something clever with his tongue. He slows down until the kiss goes lazy, a syrupy exchange of spit and tongue laced through with a shimmering summer heat.
You stay like that for a while, leaning against the counter and basking in the warmth of each languid kiss. When you nip at his tongue, he jolts with it, and you giggle against his lips. His grip on your hips tightens, and then he’s hungry against you, swallowing down your low moan as he presses deeper into the kiss.
“Up,” he says breathlessly, pulling away to give you room. You can’t deny him. Not when he sounds like that, his usual bright tone gone raspy at the edges. You hop up onto the counter, and then he’s nudging between your legs, settling warm into the vee of them.
You can feel the spit glistening on your lips, the way it’s stringing between the plush of them as you pant. Thoma can’t seem to pull his gaze away from them. You laugh softly at the look on his face, and his eyes snap up to meet yours.
His eyes have turned to seaglass, the clear green of them gone hazy. His cheeks are flushed; the tips of his ears are dusted pink. You giggle, even though you know you probably look just as ruffled.
“Cute,” he says, gazing at you with a crooked little smile. “You’re so cute.”
It’s his turn to laugh as your eyes go wide. You glance away with a little pout, and he laughs harder.
“Didn’t know you could be shy.”
You glare. “Stop teasing, Thoma.”
“No,” he says cheerfully. “Afraid there’s only one way to get me to stop now.”
You roll your eyes, but you kiss him again anyway.
And you can taste his smile.