#ashtonirwin

Ashton Irwin x female!reader

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The kitchen was thick with the scent of roasted garlic and simmering tomatoes, a warm fog that blurred the edges of the room and made the chilly Sydney evening outside feel a world away. Ashton was in his element. To most, he was the powerhouse behind the kit, all sweat and thunderous precision, but at home, his energy translated into a rhythmic, focused sort of domesticity.

He moved with a dancer’s grace between the stove and the cutting board, humming a melody that hadn't found its lyrics yet. You were perched on the counter, legs swinging, watching the light catch the gold of his rings as he stirred a heavy cast-iron pot.

"It’s missing something," he murmured, more to himself than to you. He grabbed a pinch of red pepper flakes, his brow furrowed in that intense concentration you loved. "Just a bit of heat to cut through the cream, maybe?"

He stirred the sauce three times—always three, a drummer’s habit—before picking up a wooden spoon. He blew on the steaming liquid with a soft whistle, his eyes scanning your face as he approached.

"Open up," he commanded gently.

As he brought the spoon to your lips, his other hand moved with a fluid, practiced ease. He didn't even have to think about it; his palm cupped beneath your chin, fingers slightly curled to create a safety net for any stray droplets of sauce. It was a gesture of such inherent protection that it made your heart skip a beat.

It was the quiet intimacy of the act—the way he shielded your favorite sweater from a potential stain with the same casual devotion he used to shield you from a crowd.

You took the bite, the flavors exploding on your tongue—savory, bright, and ending with that gentle kick of heat he’d just added.

"Well?" he asked, his hand still hovering there, his thumb grazing the very edge of your jawline as he waited for the verdict. He was so close you could smell the cedarwood of his cologne mixed with the basil on his hands.

"It’s perfect, Ash," you managed to say, though your voice was a little breathy. "The heat is exactly what it needed."

A dimpled grin broke across his face, the tension leaving his shoulders instantly. "Yeah? You're not just saying that because you're hungry?"

"I'm starving, but I'm also right," you laughed.

He didn't pull his hand away immediately. He used his thumb to catch a tiny smudge of sauce near the corner of your mouth, his gaze dropping to your lips for a lingering second. The air in the kitchen suddenly felt much warmer than the stove could account for.

"Good," he whispered, leaning in to press a quick, tasting kiss to your mouth—a mix of salt and sweetness. "Then let’s eat before I start hovering again."

Okay so like… when did it start? A weekday in May?