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Summary
Eli leaned in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, arms crossed, watching Miguel’s back flex with every push. It was like he was kneading stress out of his own spine, all tension and focus. The apartment smelled like butter and cinnamon, thick in the air, sweet and warm in a way that should’ve felt peaceful.
But apparently Eli’s brain wasn’t built for peace. Not when Miguel was moving like that— arms flexing, back muscles shifting under cotton like they were trying to ruin his day. It was actually a little evil. Domestic life shouldn’t look this good. It definitely shouldn’t make him feel this twitchy, this warm, this ready to crawl out of his own skin just watching.
And the most annoying part? Miguel still hadn’t looked at him once.
Or: Miguel tries to bake. Eli tries to help. It ends in sex. Obviously.