alyuhh

You sigh, admitting defeat. “Yeah, I am.” You grab the cereal Nicky had picked up specifically for moments like these. “Froot Loops instead?”

She nods, her leg hair bouncing around her. “Yummy.” 

You grab a bowl from the cabinets, along with a spoon, clattering across from where she’s now sitting, having moved to a stool. 

“You should ask my uncle Pope for help.” She speaks with a mouthful of cereal. “He likes to clean.” 

The grin falls to your lips easily at the mention of Pope. “You, Lena Blackwell, are a genius.” You press a kiss to her temple, whipping your phone out. You send him a text that reads, ‘NEED HELP ASAP.’ 

He doesn’t rush downstairs, not like you thought he would. His eyes are immediately on Lena, even with his calmed demeanor, making sure she’s not injured. And then, to you. You’re grinning as you lean against the counter, “funny story, handsome,” you hum. “There was a robbery! Wasn’t there, Lena?” 

The little girl nods with a mouth full of cereal, scooping some more in her spoon. 

“That right?” He asks roughly, unamused. 

You nod, “yes. And you know what’s so horrible? They tried to take the expensive stuff but then they changed their path to the kitchen. And then, they tried to make pancakes.” 

“Tried?” He asks as he makes his way to the countertop, lifting a spoon that’s in a puddle of the white sludge. 

“No. They succeeded because they were really smart and knew how to cook.” You watch as he takes the mess in, carefully moving around the countertop, circling you and Lena. “And then, they took the cooked pancakes and told Lena she could only have Froot Loops. It was sick.” 

Lena nods, speaking with a mouthful of food. “It’s true, uncle pope!” 

Pope shakes his head, grabbing a towel from the sink, ready to get to cleaning. “Lena, don’t follow in her footsteps. Lying is bad.” 

You grin, turning to Lena who’s already watching you, waiting to hear what your argument is. You shake your head at her, silently telling her to forget his words. She’s content with that response, going back to her cereal. 

“It’s not lying. It’s story-telling.” You defend playfully, letting him clean the mess you’ve made. “I’m building up her imagination. She’s going to write best-selling novels.” 

He scoffs, “says the liar.” 

“Not a liar.” Both you and Lena speak at the same time. You two fall into fits of giggles. 

“You’re copying me.” You tease her. 

She grins, “no, you’re copying me.” 

“Nuh-uh.” 

“Yuh-huh.” 

“Children.” Pope chastises, both of you turning to look at him as he’s moving the used plates and utensils into the sink. “Lena, go get ready for bed. You,” his glare isn’t tense as usual but it’s directed to you. “Wash the dishes.” 

You groan as Lena runs off with a giggle to her temporary bedroom. “Come on, it’s not my fault. It’s the robbers.” 

“Yes.” He repeats, “it was the robbers fault but they left and you’re here. Wash.” 

Despite the attitude that you have, you do decide to do it as he does the rest. You two clean in silence. It’s not horrifically awkward but silence means you overthink. And overthinking is bad. You have to keep going or it’ll be too much to handle. 

“Pope?” 

He doesn’t speak, a simple hum tells you to keep going. 

You don’t respond immediately, and you can feel the way he turns to face your back, “what?” His voice seems to be naturally harsh so you don’t flinch or stress over the tone. 

You put the plate down, turning to face him, wiping your wet hands with the dry rag beside the sink. 

You’re not nervous around men often. Most don’t hold a candle to you. To how great you know you can be. To how great you know you are. But Pope isn’t just any man. From the second you saw him three years ago at the grocery store, you know this was it. You knew even then, that Andrew Cody is the guy you’re going to end up with. And yet, you still don’t speak. 

The air is charged with tension. No, not tension. Softer. You can’t quite put your finger on it as you two stand there, barely a few scuffles apart, staring at each other. 

Your breath hitches, itching to say these words out loud. “I really like you.” You admit, a little too easily, because of how intensely you mean them. Wholeheartedly. Irrevocably. In any way to describe how truthful you're being. 

He doesn’t hesitate, “you’re lying.” 

Your eyebrows furrow, a scoff bubbling out of you. “Excuse me?” 

He shrugs, swinging a clean rag over his shoulder, arms crossed as he leans against the countertop. “That’s your hobby, right?” 

Now you’re offended, crossing your arms over your chest as well, “is that why you never take me seriously? You think that, because I like to lie, that my feelings for you are a lie, too?” 

“Would I be wrong to think so?” 

It’s your turn to not hesitate, “yes.” Breathily, “I wanted you the second you walked into the store.” 

“What?” His face scrunches in confusion, in that same cute way that makes you smile. 

“Nothing.” 

“No,” he takes a single step forward. “What store?” 

You wanted to hang this over him longer but you can’t. The excitement is burning through you. You need to tell him just how long he’s been invading your thoughts without even knowing his name. You need to tell him how much worse this need for him has intensified since getting to know him. 

“You really don’t remember me?” 

“Of course I remember you.” He sounds offended by whatever accusation you’re throwing at him. “I think about you all the time.” 

You take a step towards him as well. “You do?” 

He rolls his eyes, “don’t let it get to your head.” 

You laugh, “you’re letting it get to yours.” 

“What? It’s not.” 

“Not that one.”  You hum. 

He grabs the towel on his shoulder and covers his crotch as you cackle. “Shut up.” 

You shrug, still grinning. “Helen’s.” You speak the name of the grocery store. It’s a small, family owned grocery store, one where the owners are always over and chitchatting with the customers. A staple in the tight-knit community. 

“That your mother or something?” 

You shake your head, “the grocery store.”

“Okay… you want me to go to Helen’s? What do you need?” 

You groan, eyes shutting momentarily, trying to keep your emotions intact. You open them to his body much closer to yours, closing the distance. His hand is ghosting over your cheek, scared to touch you. “Do it…” your voice is small and desperate. 

It happens so fast. His hands fall to your cheeks, forcing your face up as he pushes you to lean against the sink, knee slotting between your thighs. His nose is nudging against yours, breath heavy against your lips. 

You’ve had his thumb in your mouth and his fingers in you. And not a single kiss. A forehead kiss but you’re not counting that. You need to kiss him. Have to. You’re desperate for it. You try to push your face to his but he holds your face back. “No.” His voice is whiney as he speaks, forehead against yours. “No.” Neither of you pull away. 

The camera linked to the doorway chimes, reading the license plate out loud in its robotic and monotonous voice. A button beeps and a familiar voice is heard as the machine asks to state his name. “Barry Blackwell.” 

He doesn’t fully pull away, not until the front door opens and in comes Baz. 

You clear your throat, fixing your shirt as Pope goes back to cleaning. You smile politely at Baz, “Mr. Blackwell.” You greet. “Welcome.” 

His smile toward you is seen as charming by most. And you don’t hate it, but you don’t care for it. “You can call me Baz.” 

You grimace softly with a laugh, shaking your head. “No… my step-dad tells me to never put my boss at my level.” 

Baz ignores this, turning to his brother, watching him carefully. “You good, bro?” 

Pope nods stiffly, “good.” 

It’s awkward. Pope clearly isn’t good and his brother knows this. You know this. And Baz is about to push, about to ask again, when you jump in. “I’ll show you to your room.” You push off the sink. “It’s right across Lena’s. Come on.” 

Baz nods, grabbing his bags again and following behind you as you lead him out of the kitchen. You don’t turn to look at Pope, scared to see how upset he is. Not for fear, but because the disappointment in his features will make you want to rush back to him in front of their company. 

“This is a really nice place.” Baz chimes as he inspects the walls and furniture around. 

You hum, nodding. “Yeah. Sammy’s parents are really well off.” You tell him. “He’s a stockbroker or something like that, I don’t know, some boring stuff. Mother’s a lawyer.” 

He whistles softly, “fuck. Should’ve picked a different career.” 

You huff a small laugh, opening the door to his bedroom for the next few days. “Property manager isn’t cutting it?” You joke. 

“Not even close.” He drops his bag as she leads him into the sleek and clean room. “They happily married?” 

You smile softly, “very happily.” You answer, unsure of what to say next. “Uhm… it’s late. I’m gonna go put Lena to bed and—“ 

“How is she?” He cuts you off. “Lena? Was she… upset?”

It almost warms you to know that he does care, which gets harder and harder to believe the longer you take care of the little girl. “At first, yeah. But she got over it. She’s having fun here. She picked some fruit with the gardener and Nicky when we got in. We’re thinking of making a pie tomorrow.” 

He lets out a breathy little laugh, nodding as he slumps onto the edge of the bed, taking a much needed seat. You’re slowly sliding back to the door, needing a quick escape. “So, you—“ 

He interrupts you again, “thank you, by the way.” He hums. “Allison’s boyfriend doesn’t want her to watch kids anymore while pregnant. And her mother…” he trails off for a moment. “She doesn’t care for being a mother any longer, clearly. Know you weren’t fond of kids at first, heard J mention it to Nicky. But youre good with her.” 

You take the compliment, “thank you. She’s… she’s a really great girl.” You add, “so, can—“ 

Again. “You are too.” You tense at his words. “You’re a great girl.” 

“Oh… uhm…” you wipe your sweaty palms against your bottoms, drying them as best as you can. “Tha-thank y—“ 

You almost want to yell when you’re interrupted again. But you feel relief wash over you when Lena rushes into the room, “daddy!” She jumps into her fathers arms, cheering happily and rambling away about what she did today.

This gives you the chance to slip out of the room, a heavy breath leaving you once you’re in the clear. “Fuck…” you mutter softly, anxious from the too long moment. 

You push off the wall you were leaning against, eyes falling onto Pope’s as he stands at the stairway, watching you with a cup of warm milk at hand. For Lena, of course. He’s watching you carefully, worried. You send him a small smile and walk to your bedroom, embarrassed. 

authors note . . . hiiii sorry for the lag!! hope you guys like it <3

You sigh, “sorry.” You press yourself up against the side of the car as Pope plops down next to you. 

“The hell are you doing?” He asks gruffly. 

“What are you doing?” You huff, “sit at the corner.” 

“I don’t want to.” 

“I’m telling you to.” 

“Why do I have to listen to you?” 

“Pope, move.” 

He’s childish, you’ve come to realize. Instead of scooching to the other side of the seat, he moves closer to you. “No.” 

“Pope.” You groan loudly. 

“Uncle pope,” Lena calls from her seat. She’s tapping away at her tablet with one hand as Sammy holds the other. “Are you being mean?” 

“Yes.” “No.” 

“They just like each other, mama.” Nicky chimes in, turning in her seat to grin at Lena. “You tease the people you like.” 

“I do not like him.” You hope they believe you, since it’s a complete lie. But your friends know you better than you know yourself. 

Lena laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “They do like each other! So gross!” 

The drive is incredibly long. Your body was aching from the way you were pulling from him and you had to give in. His leg is nudging against yours, pressing harder at turns.

“Move.” You groan, nudging him away. 

“No.” He nudges his knee against yours again. 

“Pope…” you huff, glaring at him. “You’re being annoying.” 

It’s his turn to huff, “you annoy me all the time.” 

“I do not.” 

“Do too.” 

“Kids…” J chimes this time, “settle down.”

“Ain’t a kid.” You toss a napkin at him from the back seat. 

Pope decides to keep going, “sure act like one.” 

“Sure act like one.” You mock, deepening your voice. 

“I don’t sound like that.” 

You mock again, “I don’t sound like that.” 

“Quit it.”

“Quit it.” 

Sammy groans this time, “both of you shut up.” 

Lena is out cold when you all get to Sammy’s family cabin. It’s nice, sleek. It doesn’t look like it belongs in the deep foliage, too modern. Her mother has expensive tastes though, so it’s not a surprise that there’s technology all throughout the place.

J and Pope argued for a minute about taking Lena in but J ultimately won, now heading in with the lolling girl in his arms. Nicky follows suit, already complaining about needing a shower and the bugs all around. Sammy chimes in about the high tech bug zappers her mother has in every room. 

You’re stuck behind with your bags in your hand. “Hello?” You call out to Pope as he starts walking to the cabin. “Where are you going?” 

He turns, his own bags in his hand. “Inside?” 

You wiggle your bag around. “What happened to chivalry?”

He glances at your bags and back at you, bored. “It died.” 

“Pope.” 

“Yeah?” He hums, uninterested. 

“Help me.” 

There’s a grin tugging at his lips, one he’s trying to fight as he turns back to you. “Where are your manners?” 

“Pope!” You sigh, “really? I’m too pretty to do this.” But he’s not budging. “Fine. Please.” 

That’s enough for him because he’s moving over to you, grabbing your bags with a triumphant smile, “good girl.” 

You think about his words long after. You hate that you want him so badly. No matter what’s said or done, nothing pulls you from this aching need.

You wonder if he’s being intentional. From what you’ve gathered, he doesn’t have much female attention. Not because women don’t want him, you see the way eyes trail over him. But he’s awkward. You’re not sure if he even notices the way he’s lusted after. 

He spends so much of his time acting like he doesn’t want you, when he makes a move that he is interested, you find yourself dissecting it for hours. It’s hard not to, especially when his softer acts are rare, in text or person. 

“What are you doing?” The strong voice makes you jump in your spot. 

You pull your hand out of the hot tub, the water dripping down your now cold arm. You turn to him, leaning against the tub. “Letting it warm up.” A pause. “Are you getting in?” 

“No. I hate hot water.” 

You roll your eyes, turning away from him. “Whatever.” 

You don’t hear his feet shuffling away, so you know he’s still here. And you can feel him. Feel the way his eyes are on your backside. 

“Whose shirt is that?” You’re wearing a huge t-shirt, practically a dress as it sits right beneath your knees, and the neck falls off your shoulder, showing off your collarbone. 

The idea is immediate. You bite your lip to stop yourself from cackling and giving yourself away. You dip your hand back into the bubbling water, humming, “why?”

“It doesn’t look like it’s yours.” 

You nod, “it isn’t.” You’re grinning, wanting to turn around and watch him. Watch the way his face twists in confusion. “Absolute truth?” 

He hesitates but agrees. “Yes.” 

The lie is easy as you turn to face him, face back to neutral. He doesn’t know that you’ve been celibate almost three years. He doesn’t need to know that the T-shirt is J’s which you stole from Nicky a while ago.

You shrug, continuing, “an old fling. Met him on Tinder.” You can’t tell what he’s feeling. You hate that you can’t because he always looks serious. Always looks stoic. “We went for drinks and ended up back at my place.” 

“But you live with your parents.” He’s trying to get you to say more, that much you can tell. 

“I’m not gross, Pope. I didn’t let him touch me until they were gone for the night.” 

“Okay.” Is all he speaks. 

You shrug, turning your back to him once more. You’re scolding yourself because of course it didn’t work. He’s not into you. He doesn’t want you. You’re the one who wants him. You’re the one who is chasing him. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 

“What did he do to you?” 

His question makes your breath hitch. Slowly, you turn around to face him again. You flinch softly at how close he is to you now, chest practically pressed up to yours. “I don’t think you want to—“ 

He doesn’t let you finish. His harsh tone cuts you off, “Tell me.” 

“He…” you’re scrambling. Nothing is coming to mind because this isn’t remotely close to being true. There’s no other guy and there’s definitely no Tinder. You mumble out the first thing that comes to mind. “He fingered me.” 

His body close to yours tells you a lot more than you’ve ever seen on him. His breathing is labored, chest rising and falling from what you’re assuming is jealousy. His hands are ghosting at your hips, scared to touch you. Now you know what you need to do.  

“Didn’t let him fuck me, Pope.” He backs you up fully against the hot tub, nose trailing down your cheek, to your jaw, and to your neck. He inhales you. Smells the mixture of your faint perfume mixed with the light sheen of sweat from the heat emanating from the hot tub you’ve been hovering over. “Couldn’t let him.” 

This solidifies what he wants— what he needs from you. His hands fall to your hips, face nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His rough hands slowly move from your hips and to your thighs, letting your t-shirt scrunch up as he desperately searches for your soft skin. 

You can’t take a full breath. His hands are tugging at the bottom of your bathing suit beneath your shirt. You expect him to tug them off of you but that doesn’t come. He pulls it taut to the side of you, letting it sit awkwardly. But you can’t focus on that when a single finger pushes between your lips, letting the tip of him press at your bundle of nerves. 

A soft gasp leaves you as he begins to rub circles at your clit. “Fuck…” you whimper softly, brows furrowing as the little waves of pleasure course through you. 

Your hips grind into his hand, desperate for more from him. He adds another finger, and another. He’s moved his face from your neck, his intense eyes watching your face twist in pleasure. “Pope, I…” you whimper softly, letting your forehead fall to his shoulder. 

“Hey, hey,” his free hand grabs your chin, forcing you to look back up at him. “Don’t look away from me.” 

And that’s all you need to listen to his command. His eyes won’t leave yours. You’re embarrassed. Embarrassed with how vulnerable this feels, having him watch you. 

You almost cry when his fingers stop the motion at your clit, but you’re quickly shut up when his hand slides a little ways down and a single finger pops into you. You try to hide your face against him again but he doesn’t allow you to. The grip on your chin tightens, fingers spreading to your cheeks, lips puckered out, and keeping you still as he pumps the single finger inside of you. 

You can’t speak. You’re a whimpering mess as he adds another finger. And another. You’re riding his hand desperately, completely flushed and flustered by his utmost attention. He’s captivated by you; by the way your face twists and turns in absolute pleasure, the way you’re rutting into him with a desperate need. 

“Are you going to cum?” If this were anything else, you’d cackle at the serious way he speaks those words but you can’t talk. You nod wildly, hips stuttering. He’s smug. You’ve never seen him look so smug before. So damn proud of himself at the way he’s got you. 

You’ve never cum so hard in your life because he refuses to let you look away. Your eyes have to be on him as your orgasm crashes over you, spasming around his fingers as your hips stutter and slow. 

The grip on your face turns soft, thumb caressing your cheek. Your chest is rising and falling, catching your breath. You choke softly when his face moves closer into yours. His nose nudges yours, lips ghosting your softly painted ones. You close your eyes, lifting your chin softly to try and meet his lips. He doesn’t let them, instead, he’s pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. 

You’re sure you could have taken more from him but Sammy’s familiar voice is heard. “I can’t find the shorts I bought!” She calls out your name. She’s getting closer. 

Pope pulls away from you, tugging your shirt back down your legs, hiding your body again. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even look at you as he walks out of the room, rushing past Sammy as she makes her way onto the back patio. She watches him curiously before turning back to you. “The hell is his issue?” 

Your eyes are wide, “oh my god, Sammy. He just fucking fingered me.” 

☆ ☆ ☆ authors note . . . hey… hey… what yall doing… okay deadass honest opinion. tnd and ino is my first “real” smut and it’s not my forte AT ALL so i hope you all love it hehehehe (this is also not edited… bear with me)

Nothing screamed.

Nothing bled.

Nothing died.

That was why you had first started coming. Baking had always kept your mind busy, but never still. It was numbers and structure, precision. Weights, percentages, temperatures, chemistry.

A constant series of calculations. Cooking asked less of your head and more of your senses. Taste this. Smell that. Stir until it feels right. Add a little more. Let it simmer. In cooking, you could disappear for a while.

You tied your apron behind your back, tucking a loose strand of hair away as the first of the evening students drifted in. The chalkboard by the door read:

French Cooking for Beginners: Week Three
Mother Sauces, Knife Skills, Tart Tatin

Your idea of heaven. Some cooking. Some baking. Best of both worlds.

You were setting your notebook down when the door opened again and someone entered the kitchen.

He did not look like a man arriving for recreational mother sauces.

His hair was all salt & pepper curls. Not overly tall but thick. Visibly strong in a way that gave him more height than he actually had. Broad-shouldered. Bow legged. White t-shirt tight around his chest and shoulders. The kind of posture that suggested he had spent years in rooms where standing wrong had consequences. His expression was calm, unreadable, bordering stern.

He was noticeably older than you. And devastatingly handsome. Your stomach flipped.

Now is not the time or the place to be thinking inappropriate thoughts about an inappropriately older man.

He carried a knife roll.

An expensive one, by the looks of it.

…To a beginners cooking class.

You bit back a smile.

He scanned the room once, taking in exits, counters, people. Then chose a station near the wall and set his things down with deliberate care.

Interesting.

He looked up.

Caught you watching.

You smiled politely.

He gave the smallest nod in return.

You nearly laughed. You had never seen someone so tense in a cooking class. Half of the students already had a glass of wine in their hands and yet he was surveying the rooms with the intensity of someone whose life was at risk.

“Welcome back, everyone!”

Chef Mireille swept in precisely on time, elegant as ever in her white jacket and red lipstick.

“Tonight we learn knife skills, mother sauces, and if you behave, dessert.”

A murmur of approval moved through the room.

“And because life is cruel,” she continued with a wink to the room, “we are rotating partners”

Groans. Laughter.

You straightened immediately.

Please let me get the stern one.

Something about him was drawing you in. You were known to talk too much, pry a little too far at the best of times. But his rough exterior did nothing to repel you. It only made you want to look more.

Mireille pointed around the room, assigning partners at random.

Then at you.

Then at him.

“You two.”

Perfect.

You crossed to his station, smiling warmly at him.

“Hi,” you said brightly. “This will be fun!”

He blinked once, a little taken aback by your optimism.

“I can’t promise anything will be edible when I’m done with it.” he responded, dryly though there was a glint of something in his eyes.

You laughed “That’s alright, I’m excellent in a crisis”

That got the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he was privy to a joke that you weren’t.

“I’m Jack,” he rasped, reaching a hand out to you.

You gave yours and grasped his hand with your own. It was calloused and so large it engulfed your own. You briefly wondered what they’d feel like on other parts of your body. But shut the thought down as fast as it came around.

“So,” you said cheerfully, “what made you sign up for this?” Your head tilted and you handed him his apron.

“It was… an aggressive recommendation.” he put, watching you as he put the apron on. Your mouth went dry seeing the veins in his arms, visible as he forcefully tied the knot.

“That sounds suspiciously vague.”

His lips pushed to the side like he was trying to hold back a smile.

“From who?”

“Friends. Colleagues. Therapist.”

Your eyes widened a little and you grinned. “An intervention?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Trust me, it wasn’t but they all think I need better hobbies and it was either this or pottery. Maybe that would’ve been the safer option” you saw him eyeing the fancy knife set he had brought with him.

You laughed softly.

He shook his head once, but there was the beginning of amusement there now.

“And you?” he asked.

“What made me sign up?”

He nodded.

“I’m work at a bakery” you said. “Thought it was time I learned to make things that don’t rely on sugar. Though Tart Tatin is safely in my comfort zone.”

“You bake professionally?”

“I do.”

“What kind?”

“Pastries, cakes, breads, anything involving butter and unnecessary effort.”

That earned the smallest real smile.

It was entirely worth the wait.

Chef Mireille clapped once for attention, waiting until the room quieted.

“Before we begin ruining perfectly good butter,” she said, “we talk about mother sauces.”

She lifted a wooden spoon like a pointer.

“In classical French cooking, the mother sauces are the foundations. The starting points. Learn them properly, and you can build a hundred other sauces from them. Learn them badly, and everything that follows tastes of regret.”

That got a laugh.

“There are five traditionally recognised mother sauces: béchamel, velouté, espagnole, tomato, and hollandaise.”

She moved down the line of ingredients as she spoke.

“Béchamel is milk thickened with roux. Simple, elegant. Velouté begins with stock and becomes lighter, silkier things. Espagnole is rich and brown and rewards patience. Tomato sauce, in the French sense, is deeper and more structured than many of you expect.”

Then she held up a bowl of cubed butter.

“And hollandaise,” she said, smiling faintly, “is where overconfident people go to be humbled.”

The room laughed again.

“And naturally, that is where we will begin. If you can master this sauce you can master them all. It is an emulsion. Fat and liquid persuaded to cooperate through technique, temperature, and attention. Too cold, it tightens. Too hot, it splits. Too rough, it breaks. Too timid, it never comes together.”

Her gaze swept the room.

“So, like many relationships.”

Even louder laughter this time.

Mireille set the bowl down.

“Tonight, we are learning what they teach: control of heat, patience, texture, and trust. If you can make a good sauce, you can cook. If you can rescue a broken sauce, you can really cook.”

She

“Now. Aprons on. Whisks ready. And if anyone curdles my hollandaise, at least do me the courtesy of telling me before I taste, hm?”

You divided the ingredients between you with the efficiency of someone who had done this enough times to know chaos always began with poor prep.

Jack read the recipe card once, then set it down like he intended to win on instinct alone.

He took the butter and put it on the stove, whilst you got to work whisking the eggs with white wine, a splash of cold water and a pinch of salt.

“So, Jack, what do you do when you’re not being mysteriously assigned hobbies?”

A brief pause as he stared down intently at the melting butter. As if, if he looked away for a second, it would all go wrong.

“Emergency medicine.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Really.”

“That must be intense.”

“Sometimes.”

You laughed.

“Sometimes?”

He glanced at you, then back at the butter.

“A lot of the time.” he admitted.

“II hope you don’t mind my questions. I’m just…. interested.” you said honestly. Because it was the truth. And you wanted to know more.

“In emergency medicine?”

“In you.”

That made him pause, spoon stalling in the pan.

You pretended not to notice.

Then he resumed stirring.

“ER now,” he said.

“Now?”

“I used to be a combat medic.”

Your whisk stopped.

“Well.”

He looked over.

“Well what?”

“That is significantly more interesting than baker.” You held out the eggs for him.

He huffed a laugh and poured the butter into the eggs, placing the bowl over a pan of simmering water.

“I mean… don’t get me wrong. I’m sure you’ve never had pastry collapse at six in the morning.”

“Comparable trauma?” he smirked, not turning to face you but you could see his eyes flicking towards you.

“Devastating.”

He laughed then.

Short. Real.

It changed his whole face.

You liked the sound of it immediately.

But the smell… wait? The smell?

Oh no.

Chef Mireille appeared at your shoulder with the uncanny timing of someone who could sense culinary incompetence from across the room.

She looked first at the pan.

Then at Jack.

Then back at the pan.

You craned your neck and got your first look as well. The hollandaise sat in the bowl in glossy yellow patches, butter pooling at the edges, curdled through the middle.

Mireille placed one hand on her hip.

“Well,” she said. “This poor sauce has suffered, it seems. The heat is far too high”

Jack’s brows raised in surprise and then dropped into a frown. You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself laughing.

Jack glanced down at the bowl. “In my defence,”

“Ah Ah. The heat,” Mireille cut in smoothly, “did not turn up by itself.”

A few people nearby laughed.

Then her eyes moved to you.

“And you,” she said, lifting one elegant brow.

Uh-oh. You swallowed the laughter you had been holding in.

“Were you paying attention?”

You straightened automatically.

“I was just,”

“She was helping,” Jack cut in.

Mireille ignored him with professional ease.

“You are usually one of my star pupils,” she told you, tone playfully stern. “Reliable. Focused. A woman I trust around butter.”

You pressed a hand to your chest. “Chef,”

“And yet tonight,” she continued, gesturing toward the bowl, “you have allowed this man to commit acts of impatience in my kitchen.”

Mireille pointed her spoon between the two of you.

“Start again. Lower heat. Slower hands. Less eye contact.”

Heat climbed your neck.

Now it was Jack who was holding back a laugh.

“We’re just cooking.”

“Mm,” Mireille said. “And I am twenty-five.”

She swept away before either of you could answer.

There was a beat of silence.

Then you turned and nudged Jack lightly in the ribs with your elbow.

“You’re dragging my reputation down.”

He looked at you, deadpan.

“Your reputation must be pretty fragile.”

You gasped softly.

“It was immaculate before you arrived.”

His mouth twitched and he absently rubbed the spot on his torso where your elbow had been.

“Then I’m glad I came.”

One more attempt, this time successful, at mastering the hollandaise, and it was time for the knife demonstration.

Your second batch had come together beautifully. Pale gold and glossy, thick enough to ribbon from the spoon. Chef Mireille had swept past, dipped a fingertip into it, and given a rare nod of approval before gliding on to terrorise another station.

You had tried not to look smug.

Jack had noticed anyway and shot you a subtle wink that made your heart skip.

Now the room gathered around the long central counter while Mireille demonstrated how to peel, core, and slice apples evenly for the Tart Tatin.

“Uniformity,” she said, lifting a wedge between two fingers, “is not about pleasing me, though naturally it does. It is about making sure everything cooks at the same rate. If one piece is too thick and one too thin, one burns while the other stews.”

She set the knife down.

“And grip matters. If you are fighting the knife, you have already lost”

She demonstrated once, swift and elegant, then sent everyone back to their stations with bowls of apples and the promise of shame for anyone who hacked them into rustic chunks and called it charm.

You returned to your counter with Jack beside you.

He picked up the knife immediately.

And held it completely wrong.

Not beginner wrong. Not nervous wrong.

Wrong in a way that suggested years of muscle memory.

His index finger ran high along the spine of the blade, thumb angled close, grip narrow and exact, as if he were about to make an incision rather than cut fruit.

You stared.

“That,” you said, pointing, “is not a kitchen grip.”

He glanced down at his hand.

“It cuts.”

“You’re holding it like a scalpel Doc.”

His mouth twitched.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, they’re just apples”

Your face dropped into a deadpan stare and you teased, “You’re not dragging my reputation through the mud anymore”

You stepped nearer before you could think better of it.

Up close, he was even more solid than he looked. Heat rolled off him in a quiet wave. He smelled so good. Clean soap, cotton, and something warmer beneath it. Cedar, maybe, or just him. The kind of smell that made you instinctively lean in before sense caught up.

You reached for his wrist.

His forearm tensed the second your fingers closed around it.

Strong. Dense. Warm.

The muscles shifted beneath your touch like restrained machinery.

“Relax,” you murmured.

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re so tense, didn’t you hear what Chef said about fighting the knife?”

That earned a low sound that might have been a laugh.

“Not like that,” You slid your hand down, nudging his thumb and forefinger into place at the base of the blade, “Like this”

“Pinch grip,” you said. “Here. Control comes from the blade, not strangling the handle.”

Your other hand covered the back of his briefly, guiding the angle lower.

He went very still.

So did you.

You became acutely aware of the breadth of his chest just behind your shoulder, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the fact that if you leaned back half an inch you would feel all of him.

Your pulse gave an unhelpful kick.

“Then your guiding hand,” you said, voice thankfully steady, “makes a claw.”

You took his free hand and curled his fingertips inward around the apple.

“Protect the tips of your fingers, bend them in a little.”

“Bossy,” he murmured near your ear.

“People generally appreciate instruction involving sharp objects.”

“I don’t usually need any instruction around sharp objects.”

“Debatable.” You smiled, though with you in front of him like this you know he couldn’t see.

You released him and stepped back.

“There. Now slice.”

He brought the knife down through the apple in smooth, clean strokes. Even wedges. Neat spacing.

Quick learner.

Annoyingly attractive.

“Well?” he asked without looking up.

“Well what?”

“Tell me I’m talented.”

You laughed.

“I’ll tell you you’re teachable. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

That time he smiled properly.

It hit you with the force of a minor collision.

Warmth transformed him. Softened the stern lines of his face. Made him look less like a man carrying something heavy and more like one who had briefly remembered how to set it down.

You forgot what you were saying for a full second.

He noticed that too.

“Tart Tatin,” he said coyly. “Try to focus.”

You stared at him.

“Are you flirting with me over apples?”

“I don’t know,” he said, slicing another perfect wedge. “Is it working?”

You rolled your eyes, another smile forcing its way onto your face before you could stop it. You didn’t bother humouring him with a response, your expression told him enough already.

From there, working together became strangely symbiotic.

You caramelised the apples on the stove, he stabilised the pan handle without being asked.

He fetched ingredients before you reached for them.

You corrected seasoning. He corrected heat. And then overcorrected it.

Still learning. You bit back a laugh

“The heat was fine, just watch the timer” you said.

“They burn if ignored.”

“Where was that attitude when you killed our hollandaise?”

He glanced over.

“I was distracted then:

Your heart beat heavy against your chest.

“You’re not now?” you asked, eyes flicking up to his. He was watching you with a flirtatious intensity you hadn’t experience from anyone before. Maybe you’d just been flirting with the wrong people this whole time.

“I am” he said, voice rough and low, “I’m just motivated not to disappoint you twice in one night”

“Hmm, maybe too late for that Doc. Your tart crust is looking pretty thick.”

He looked down at it.

“It is not.”

“It’s wearing armour.”

“It needs structure.”

“It needs tenderness.” you arched a brow, daring him to argue further.

That look again.

Unadulterated attraction.

“You talk like that about all pastry?”

“Only the difficult ones.”

The timer for the apples went off then.

You both reached to take the pan off of the heat at the same time.

Your fingers brushed.

Neither of you moved for a beat too long.

Then he moved away, allowing you to take it.

“Slow reflexes, old man”

“I was letting you have it, kid”

“How noble.” you retorted, trying to ignore the flush of heat between your legs at the nickname he had given you.

As the tarts came out of the ovens, the room softened into that pleasant end-of-class warmth.

More wine appeared at nearby stations. Mireille floated by critiquing apple placements and praising crusts.

Jack stood beside you, leaning on the counter. You were starting to think he noticed how much you’d been looking at his arms and had decided to show them off for you.

Extremely annoyingly attractive.

“What kind of bakery?” he asked.

You glanced over, surprised.

“Umm it’s called Willow & Rye. Mostly pastries, custom cakes, bread. If I’m feeling particularly masochistic I’ll make macarons on weekends.”

He hummed, eyes never leaving yours.

“You own it?”

“I do, took over from my mom or took over from her mom. I basically grew up in that place.”

“You like it?”

No hesitation.

“I love it.”

He nodded once.

As though filing that away.

“And cooking?” he asked.

“What about it?”

“Why take a cooking class after baking all day?”

You laughed lightly, understanding the absurdity, “Well… it’s very different to baking. And I like learning things I’m not good at.”

“Why.”

“Because being bad at something humbles you.”

“You’re not bad at this.”

You laughed, “Thanks. But thats now. I was never a natural with cooking like I was with baking. It took time.”

His mouth twitched.

You added more quietly,

“And I find it peaceful. Even when the kitchen is chaotic I can still find the peace I need there.”

Something in his expression shifted then.

Small enough most people wouldn’t notice.

You did.

“Peaceful,” he repeated.

“Yeah.”

He pushed down off of the countertop and wrung his hands together, looking down at them.

“Maybe that’s why I’m here too.”

Warmth moved low in your stomach.

So naturally, you ruined the moment.

“I still wouldn’t trust you to do any of this alone”

He stared.

Then smiled slowly.

“I learn fast.”

“Do you?”

His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.

“I do.”

By the time the tart came out of the oven, golden and fragrant, the room had dissolved into happy chaos.

People packed leftovers. Chef Mireille kissed cheeks and assigned homework.

You stayed behind to wipe down your station, as always.

Jack stayed too.

Not helping, exactly.

Lingering.

“You can go, you don’t have to wait for me” you said.

“I know.”

He didn’t move.

You dried a pan, trying to reign in the heat you could feel spreading up your neck to your face.

He watched you with the same focus he gave everything else.

“You hungry?”

You glanced over at the half-eaten tart between you, raising a brow at him.

“Is that a joke?”

“Or thirsty, then.”

Not smooth.

Not practiced.

Just direct.

You liked that far more than smooth.

“I could use a drink,” you replied, a smile playing at the corner of your mouth.

The wine bar next door was narrow, warm, and softly lit.

You took a booth.

You ordered wine.

He ordered water, mentioning briefly that he was driving home when he saw the surprise on your face.

“Ah, here I was expecting whiskey” you said.

“Why is that?”

“It’s very on brand for gruff older man in need of hobbies.”

“You think I’m gruff.”

You bit your bottom lip, smiling and nodding before saying “Can I ask you a question?”

He gestured for you to go ahead.

“Now, don’t take this the wrong way because I think you look incredible in the apron but. Why do your friends feel the need to strong arm you into taking up a cooking class?”

He shook his head, amused before leaning forward, resting on his elbows.

“They think I have a habit of mistaking danger for recreation.”

You smiled faintly. “Do you?”

“Sometimes.”

He glanced down at the water glass, turning it once against the table.

“Before this, I was doing volunteer medic work with a SWAT unit.”

You blinked. “Wow,” nodding “That’s really brave”

His mouth twitched but he didn’t argue.

“Anyway, couple months back I caught a graze.”

Your smile faded.

“A bullet?”

“Technically.”

“Jack.”

“It barely touched me.”

You stared at him.

Mouth downturned, he drew a sharp breath through his nose, shrugging like it was no big deal.

“Apparently getting shot, however inefficiently, gave everyone around me opinions.”

You were quiet for a moment.

“And what do you think?”

That made him pause for a second.

“They’re probably just tired of waiting for the phone to ring. So. Cooking class”

He summed it up like it was nothing. Like he had just finished telling you about traffic.

Conversation unspooled easier after that.

He told you about his job, long shifts working nights. You laughed when he taught you the Nightcrawler chant that he does with his staff at the start of a shift to hype themselves up.

He told you about his friends who worried.

And he told you about his time in the service, a life built around reacting quickly. Losing his leg.

He didn’t overshare, but what he gave you was enough that you were able to build a picture of who he was, the life he lead. And you wanted more.

You told him about four a.m. starts at the bakery, kneading dough before sunrise, the violence of holiday cake orders.

You told him about pressures of keeping the third generation family business going.

And you told him about baking. Growing up. With your mom and grandmother. Food as a conduit for community. A way to gather close with everyone you love and share in something.

“You talk about food like religion,” he said.

“Oh please, in my family it was the next best thing.”

Eventually the wine bar closed down. Jack offered you a ride.

You wouldn’t have ever said yes to a ride from someone you had only known for a few short hours but… you didn’t want to say goodbye yet.

The walk to the car park was damp with recent rain.

Streetlights turned the pavement gold.

You stopped beside his car.

He opened the passenger door.

As you neared him, you hesitated.

“You’re not getting in?” his voice was low. You looked up at him, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. He swallowed and his adam’s apple bobbed.

You were suddenly very thirsty again.

“Not yet”

Streetlight caught in the silver at his temples. The night air was cool, but standing this close to him made it hard to notice.

He stepped closer and the air changed with him, into something electric.

“You got quiet,” he said.

“Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

A smile pulled at your mouth.

“I want you, Jack.”

He went still.

Not startled. Not offended.

Just still in that way controlled men did when faced with something uncontrollable.

His eyes searched your face like he was checking for hesitation, for uncertainty, for the chance that you didn’t mean it.

“You don’t know how difficult you’re making it for me” he said quietly.

Your brow furrowed, confused. Your hand reached out for his, trailing up his arms lightly.

“What’s difficult about this?”

His jaw tightened visibly.

“I’m older than you.”

You laughed a little.

“Yeah, Jack, I noticed.”

“That doesn’t concern you?.”

“It looks like it concerns you enough for both of us, apparently.”

That almost pulled a smile from him, but it faded before it fully formed.

You dropped your hand. “Look, if this isn’t-. If you don’t want this. I’m sorry if I got the wrong impression”

His hand came to your jaw then, rough palm warm against your skin, thumb resting lightly beneath your chin.

“No. I want you too, you don’t know how much. All night I’ve been thinking about it” he said, the words sounding dragged from somewhere deep. “That’s the problem.”

You leaned into his touch.

“Doesn’t sound like one to me.”

“No,” he said, one corner of his mouth tugging up, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth. “It sounds like the start of several.”

You smiled up at him innocently. Far from innocent.

He groaned, almost too quiet to hear but you did.

That did it.

You reached up, hands reaching for his curls and bringing his head towards your own.

He kissed you like he’d been restraining the urge for hours and resented the delay.

One hand came to your waist.

The other braced on the car above your shoulder.

Controlled. Strong. Deliberate.

You kissed him back harder.

He made a low sound in his throat.

You tugged him closer by the front of his shirt.

“Still think pottery was the better choice?” you murmured.

“No.”

“Good.”

He kissed you again.

Longer this time. His tongue pushing in against your own, teeth biting gently at your lip.

When you broke apart, breathless, you took him by the hand.

Closing the passenger door and opening the back door.

You looked at him, brow raised in a challenge.

He laughed and slid into the back, pulling you with him.

The windows fogged quickly.

Heat trapped in too small a space. City lights reduced to blur.

You learned several things, as you were straddled on Jacks lap with your dress hiked up above your hips.

Jack liked control until he trusted someone enough not to need it.

He was attentive in every sense of the word.

And all that contained stillness hid a startling amount of hunger.

You kissed until your lips were swollen. Chin rubbed raw against his silver stubble.

Hands explored through clothing first, hesitant nowhere but careful everywhere that mattered.

There was laughter between sharper moments.

Your forehead bumping the roof of the car.

His muttered complaint about leg room, wishing he’d had the fore thought to push the front seats forward.

You teasing him that tactical planning should’ve accounted for that.

But when the laughter subsided, all that was left in its place was the heat.

You lifted up on his lap and he reached down to align his cock to your soaking entrance. You hadn’t had a chance to see it but fuck did you feel it. You had a moment of panic, he was thicker than anyone you had been with before. And lets be honest… it had been a while.

He looked up at you, eyes darker than before.

“You still with me?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me if anything feels wrong.”

Something in your chest tightened at the care in it.

You nodded.

“Good girl, so wet for me” he said softly, voice roughened by want, feeling exactly how much you wanted him as the tip of his cock entered you.

The words went through you like a spark.

He held you closer to his chest, patient where another man might have rushed, giving you time to adjust, time to breathe, time to feel every inch of anticipation.

Your fingers tangled in his curls.

Your eyes squeezed shut.

“Take your time baby,” he murmured against your throat.

Your thighs were shaking with the strain of holding yourself up but Jack noticed. And before you knew it strong rough hands were holding you up, hovering you just on the tip while you got used to the stretch. The veins in his arms were more prominent than you had seen all night. Jack moaned as your pussy clenched around him from the sight.

“Good girl” he said, drawn out “We’re gonna go nice and slow yeah?” he lowered you ever so gradually lower and lower as his cock went deeper and deeper inside of you. You had never been so fucking full. It was overwhelming. So full you could cry.

When you finally settled, his cock fully seated inside of you, Jacks head fell back onto the head rest. Eyes closed and mouth slightly open in absolute bliss.

You kissed up his jaw, hands moving from his hair to his shoulders. Clutching desperately as you began to move.

That spurred Jack back into action, his hands moving to cup your ass, finding the rhythm you wanted to set and lifting you in time.

“Ohh good girl. You’re so wet for me aren’t you” he cooed, drawing out a wanton moan from you that had you realising you’d been holding yourself breath. He had made you forget how to fucking breathe.

Bracing his hands against the seat, he used the leverage to buck his hips up to meet you and you folded, head resting against his shoulder.

“Jack, feels so good” you whined pathetically.

“Yeah baby, let me take care of you” he murmured in your ear, words enunciated by grunts as he rutted his hips, “Do you feel how hard you made me? I’ve been thinking about this all night. Wanted you as soon as I fuckin’ saw you baby”

Your insides quivered around him and he knew you were close, you wanted to straighten back up and move on him again but you were so fucked out on his cock you felt like you couldn’t move. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Good girl, you’re getting close aren’t you?,” he moaned, a ragged breath leaving his chest, “You’re gonna make me cum too, your tight pussy is squeezing me so well baby”

Fuck. That did it.

Your legs started to tremble and his hands were already there, on your hips, grinding you down onto his length where you had lost the strength to do it yourself.

“There she is. I’ve got you, cum all over my cock baby”

He held you steady, worked you through it with the same patient certainty he seemed to bring to everything, like there had never been any question he would carry you when your body gave out.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough and low. “Let go for me.”

And with his hands anchoring you, you did.

Your body hummed with pleasure and the sob that you had been holding in let out as your orgasm rode through you.

You mumbled something indecipherable, unable to get the words out.

“Talk to me” Jack said, voice raspy and breathing fast, “What do you want baby?”

“Please Jack” you sobbed “I need you- inside me. Please”

His eyes closed again and his fingers dug into your flesh at your words.

“You want me to finish inside you?”

You nodded, head still resting on his shoulder, body complete mush.

“Say it.” he bit out. Demanding and assertive.

“I want you” you whimpered.

“Not what I meant,” His hips bucked up hard and you gasped for air, “Say. It”

“Cum inside me Jack. I need it. Please” you repeated that last word, over and over, blabbering and completely cock drunk.

Jack groaned and you could feel his cock twitching inside of you, filling you with his seed, overflowing and seeping back out.

What a fucking mess.

You leaned against his shoulder, you couldn’t say for how long, catching your breath.

Jack held you, long after his cock had gone soft, still buried deep in the warmth of you. His hands stroked your hair, down your back. Repetitively over and over. He pressed kisses into your temple and whispered how good you were.

You had never felt safer.

After a long time, you got up. Jack helped you dress which you were glad for. He had fucked any strength you had left out of you.

He drove you home, hand holding yours the whole time, rubbing soothing circles into your palm.

When he pulled up outside your building, neither of you moved immediately.

Then, direct as ever,

“I’ll make you dinner sometime.”

You laughed sleepily before you could stop yourself.

His brow lifted.

“I’ve seen your skills, Jack.”

“They improved significantly tonight.”

“Still.”

He leaned towards you, hand coming up to grasp your chin gently.

“You saying no?”

“I’m saying if we eat anything edible, I’m probably the one cooking.”

He smiled, nodding.

“You can cook. I’ll sous chef”

You grinned up at him, knowing you probably looked completely love sick.

“Deal” you said.

He walked you to your door, making sure you had stepped over the threshold before asking,

“Next Thursday?” he asked.

“The class?”

“The dinner.”

You pretended to consider.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you practice your knife grip”

He laughed.

Warm and rough. Pulling you back towards him slowly.

“I will practice.”

He stroked your hair and tilted your head back towards him, kissing you deeply.