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Thinking back on it, it was all Karen’s fault.
Foggy wasn’t even trying to snoop. He’d just gone into Matt’s office to borrow a pen—because of course Matt had the good ones, the fancy ones with the nice ink and the click that felt expensive—and there, right on top of the desk, was the world’s most suspicious Post-it note.
Don’t forget lunch with Foggy – 1:00. Tell him how you feel.
Foggy had stared at it for a full ten seconds, blinking like maybe the words would rearrange themselves into something boring and platonic. They didn’t. He’d memorized the handwriting years ago.
He would’ve just quietly backed out of the office if Karen hadn’t walked by right then and grinned like the smug little chaos agent she was. “Oops,” she said, sing-song. “Guess I left that there on purpose.”
“Karen.”
“I’m not taking it back.”
That was three weeks ago.
Now, it’s Sunday morning, and Matt’s standing at the stove in Foggy’s apartment—shirtless, hair still sleep-mussed, trying to flip pancakes like he isn’t incredibly bad at flipping pancakes.
“I can hear your judgment,” Matt says without turning around.
“I’m not judging,” Foggy says, holding back a laugh. “I’m just... observing. Like a scientist. Watching a man tragically overestimate his pancake-flipping skills.”
Matt sighs and lets the spatula clatter to the counter. “You know, most people find their boyfriends charming.”
Foggy crosses the kitchen and wraps his arms around Matt’s waist from behind. “You are charming. Just not pancake-competent.”
Matt leans back into him with a little smile, hands resting over Foggy’s. “Do I get partial credit for trying?”
“You get full credit,” Foggy says. “Because you’re blind, half-asleep, and still somehow managing to look hot while burning breakfast.”
Matt chuckles low in his throat. “It’s a skill.”
“You’re lucky you’re pretty.”
“You’re lucky I love you.”
That makes Foggy go quiet for a second. It still hits him kind of sideways, sometimes—that Matt loves him. Openly. Without fear or armor. Like it’s not even a question.
He tightens his arms around Matt and presses a kiss to the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he says. “I really am.”
Matt turns, flour on his cheek, and Foggy brushes it off gently. “I was going to tell you at that lunch,” he says. “Karen didn’t really push me. I just needed the nudge.”
Foggy grins. “So what you’re saying is…it was Karen’s fault.”
Matt laughs and nods. “Entirely.”
They kiss right there in the kitchen, the smell of slightly-scorched pancakes in the air and sunlight warming the floor, and Foggy thinks— yeah. He’ll send Karen flowers later.