Work Text:
The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of Carlos’s knife against the wooden cutting board was the heartbeat of the kitchen. In the background, a pot of water sent up a lazy, rolling simmer, a low hum that softened the quiet evening. You stood at the stove, gently turning over ingredients in a pan that filled the room with a rich, savory aroma—something that smelled so good it felt almost too perfect for a Tuesday night.
You shifted your weight, balancing like a flamingo with your left hand braced against the cool marble counter and one foot tucked against your opposite calf.
Suddenly, the rhythmic chopping stopped.
The abrupt silence made you glance over. Carlos was leaning against the counter, the knife resting idle beside a pile of perfectly diced onions. He was just looking at you. His eyes, warm and dark, held a distinct, soft sparkle of pure adoration.
"What?" you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Can you pass me the salt?" You pointed with your wooden spoon toward the shaker sitting just behind him.
He reached back, grabbed it, and handed it over without once breaking eye contact. He just kept standing there, a soft smile playing on his face.
"Carlos," you said, shaking your head.
"Hm?" he hummed, the sound low in his chest.
"You're staring," you raised your eyebrows, tapping the spoon against the edge of the pan. "Do you need something? Am I burning it?"
"Nothing. No, it smells perfect," his smile widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "I... you look really good cooking."
You glanced down at yourself, let out a soft laugh, and gestured to your outfit. "Carlos, I'm wearing oversized gym shorts and a t-shirt that has a literal bleach stain on the hem. Mi cariño, what exactly is special about this?"
"I don't know," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, grounded register he only used when it was just the two of you. "You're standing in my kitchen, making dinner. I love it."
He closed the distance between you, his footsteps quiet on the tiled floor. Stepping up behind you, he wrapped his arms securely around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. He smelled like garlic, clean laundry, and the faint, woody scent of his cologne.
"We do this almost every day now," you murmured, leaning back into his solid warmth but keeping an eye on the pan.
"And I love it every single day."
"Don't you ever get bored of it, though?" you asked. You tilted your head sideways, lifting your chin to look up at his jawline. "The routine of it all?"
"Do you?" he countered softly.
Before you could answer, he pressed a tender, lingering kiss into the crown of your head, then rested his chin right there, using you as his personal headrest.
"No," you admitted, your heart doing a familiar, happy flip. "I love cooking with you."
"And I love watching you do it," Carlos said, his arms tightening just a fraction around you, anchoring you both in the quiet, domestic safety of the room. "I love you."
"I love you more," you said, turning off the burner. "Now move your chin, giant, or we're going to be eating burnt garlic.”