#cookie jar

Every winter, the office holds a potluck. You consider yourself a home cook and take a lot of pride in the food you make, so you always go all-out. This year, you'd really outdone yourself, and you were very excited to see how the office took to what you'd made.

Amidst meandering about with your coworkers, you notice that Lars keeps sneaking extra helpings and slipping into the break room instead of socializing with everyone else. Eventually, after he doesn't come back for a while, you slip away yourself to hunt him down. It doesn't take you long to find him in the lounge on the other side of the building - fast asleep in a food coma. You choose not to disturb him, but you take note of how absolutely darling he is, snoozing away in the comfy chair with his hands clasped modestly over his middle.

A few days later, you offer him some of your lunch with the excuse that you've made too much. In actuality, though, you just found it precious how much he enjoyed your cooking and hoped to get that reaction again. He initially politely declines, but after a single "are you sure?" he folds immediately - you just make good food! If what you're offering is even half as good as what you brought to the potluck, it'll be the highlight of his day. Which, of course, it is.

Naturally, this devolves to you bringing him lunch every so often, then once a week, then a few times a week, until eventually you're bringing him a second lunch every day even though he's never stopped bringing his own. You'd even started spending some of your breaks together and getting used to each others' company. But after a few months of this, you start to notice him tugging at his shirt rather often and slouching a bit more, and he is very quick to put on a coat when standing... He's also been much more shy and quick to whisk himself away when talking to you, despite still never turning down a meal. Maybe he's worried that others will catch on to your role in his...change of appearance.

One day, you decide to risk it and head over to his desk, feeling a pang of guilt at his crestfallen face when he sees you've come empty-handed. However instead of offering him lunch, this time you invite him over for dinner. You'll be making the same dish that you'd made at the potluck, and you thought he may like to share it with you. You see him swallow his anxiety and try to contain himself, but the light in his eyes and the squeezing of his hands gives away his excitement, and he agrees.

At your place, it takes him a few minutes to start to relax around you. He normally does not spend time with company, ESPECIALLY in such an intimate setting, at another person's house while they make him dinner. You make sure to be a good host and bring him his plate, which becomes plates, and keep his drink topped off throughout the night. By the end of the evening you can clearly see him trying to hide how full he is, and the shirt-tugging has become incredibly obvious. Wearing a button-up was not the move for him today.

You tell him you'd baked some cookies for dessert, and his face goes through several emotions before he responds - excitement, thought, nausea, fear. He stands up quickly, grabbing his coat and making a point to hold it closely in front of him. He breathlessly thanks you for the meal and hurries out the door, leaving you puzzled and disappointed. Maybe he had caught on...? You hope that isn't the case. Your love language is food, and while it makes your heart flutter to see the effect you're having on him, it really just gives you joy to make him happy with what you already love doing - making food and sharing it with people you care about. You would hate for him to take this the wrong way without you being able to explain.

You spend the night worrying you've overstepped a boundary with him and dread him ignoring you at work the next day. But instead, to your delight, he stops by your desk rather than waiting for you to stop by his. Without so much as a greeting, he stammers a request to come over for dinner again.

And so you run it back - he comes over that night, a bit more relaxed off rip this time. You whip up something less extravagant but just as delicious. You notice he's chosen a sweater instead of a button up, rightfully so, and you realize you recognize the sweater - it used to be a staple in his rotation, but considering the way it hugs him now, you can see why he has seemingly retired it.

After dinner, you take a leap and invite him to the couch to watch TV. It's a Friday, after all, so there's no burden of work or church in the morning. You both can afford to spare the extra time for each other. His gaze lingers at the table for a moment, pursing his lips which disappear behind his mustache in that darling way they do. He squeezes his eyes shut before he looks back at you, and he mutters his agreement through a nervous smile.

He sits first, again hiding the effort it takes to stand and make his way to the couch. But before you follow suit, you remember that you still have leftover cookies from yesterday. You tentatively offer them again, hoping that he doesn't have the same puzzling reaction.

His eyes widen and his lips tighten again. He looks at the floor, then you, the floor, you, and he opens his mouth to speak seemingly before he had come up with what to say. So instead, he softly smiles and nods with a nervous laugh, if you could call it that. It was more of a sigh, a quick outlet of air in place of anything to say.

You can't hide your smile, so you quickly turn away and head for the kitchen, opening the tupperware of cookies that you'd put so much love into baking. You're overjoyed that you'll get the chance to share them with him after all. You take out half and arrange them carefully on one of your big fancy plates - it's a white serving plate with ruffled edges lined in green and gold, with a mint floral pattern branching out from the center. You only ever use it for special occasions, and this sure is one to you.

After taking a moment to breathe and compose yourself, you pad into the living room with the cookies and set them on the coffee table. You grab the remote and turn on the TV - a popular sitcom is on, easy watching, so you leave it on that channel. You start to sit before you realize -

"Oh my gosh, I haven't offered you anything to drink - would you like anything?"

He furrows his brow in thought for a moment and grips the edge of the couch, near his knees. He bites his lower lip before answering.

"Do you, uhm...do you have any milk?" He tilts his head earnestly.

A grin tugs at your cheeks until you truly can't hold it in. How absolutely precious he is. Milk and cookies. What could be more endearing? You tell him you'll be right back and grab him a glass.

You hand it to him, and he receives it with both hands and a quiet "thanks." You take your seat to the right of him, ensuring that you are on the complete opposite end of the couch. You were not about to push him more than you already were - Lars is not one for touch, and this is already the closest you've ever been to him. You settle in and tuck one knee to your chest, crossing the other underneath you. He looks at you, puzzled.

"Don't you want any?"

You raise your eyebrows in surprise - here you are, doting on him and giving him everything he wants; it didn't cross your mind that he might think about your wants, too. You start to respond and adjust yourself to get up, but he interrupts you.

"No. No, that's okay, I'll get it." He gently sets his glass down and gives you a soft, closed-lip smile - different than the one he normally gives. It's...warmer. Happier, you'd say.

He places his hands on his knees, and you smile to yourself, noticing the faintest huff of effort he gives when standing. You hear the fridge open, the jug of milk being placed on the counter, followed by some rummaging through your cupboards.

"The glasses are above the sink, to the right."

"Oh, okay." A pause in the rummaging, a cupboard opens and closes. You hear him pour the glass and return the jug before coming back to the living room.

Your cheeks flush when he walks back towards you, again holding a glass in both hands - your glass, your blue and green glass. The one you always drink from, the one you bought a second of just so you could keep it at work. He picked out your glass.

"Thank you, Lars," you blush, taking it from him with the same care he did you. He nods and smiles, bouncing slightly on his toes before stepping around the coffee table to sit with you again. You have to stop yourself from doing a double-take - he was absolutely sitting closer to you. You hold your breath, waiting for him to scoot away, but he doesn't. Instead, he just reaches out and takes one of the cookies. You do the same, mostly to keep yourself occupied so you don't stay frozen, unable to do anything but stare at him while your heart threatens to jump out of your chest.

He holds it in front of his face for a moment, and you hear him take a breath, as if working himself up to it. You think back to dinner - he had really enjoyed your cooking as always, so you can't help but chuckle to yourself knowing he probably is trying to find room for dessert that really isn't there.

You catch yourself staring, but luckily he doesn't. You turn to face the TV and start snacking on your cookie. Out of the corner of your eye you see him carefully take a bite out of his, and you keep your attention on your peripheral vision, anticipating his reaction.

"Mmm," you hear him hum his satisfaction. You feel the couch shift as he leans his back against the cushions, settling in and getting comfortable. You allow yourself to look back at him now, your heart full from seeing him happily taking small, consecutive bites out of his cookie. What you wouldn't give to wrap him in an embrace and shower him with affection! But no, it's important to you to go at his pace. You remind yourself where you came from and where you are: what started as an office acquaintanceship has evolved into a growing friendship, blossoming from your shared love of good food - the proof of which rests softly on his waistband. How could you even think of wanting for more right now?

The two of you sit for a while, absentmindedly chuckling to yourselves over the cheesy jokes on TV. You've already torn through three of your cookies and half your glass of milk while he's just about finished his first, his glass still full. You adjust your legs so you can lean forward and grab his cup for him, which he graciously takes.

"Oh, thank you," he says, gingerly placing his last bit of cookie in his mouth before taking a swig of milk with it. "These are really delicious," he adds.

"I'm really glad you like them," you reply, reaching for another cookie. But instead of taking it for yourself, you hand it to him.

He shakes his head. "Oh, no, thank you, I don't need anymore, thank you," he says quickly.

"Oh, alright," you go to take a bite of the cookie yourself.

"Wait-"

You stop with your mouth wide open before you can chomp down on it.

"I can maybe have one more, maybe."

You become overwhelmed by the warmth in your cheeks and butterflies in your stomach. With a grin probably too big to go unnoticed, you hand the cookie back to him and curl your legs back up into yourself. You realize you had naturally settled in so you were facing him more than the TV. He seemed so comfortable - you'd never seen him like this. He let his chin tuck to his chest and his body sunk into the couch. All the stiffness that he normally carried himself with was gone. You can see it in his cheeks, jaw, shoulders, hands - you had never noticed all of that tension he held in his body until now, now that you've seen him without it. It's unfortunate that he's still in work clothes. While the sweater is definitely better than the button up, his slacks almost certainly aren't the most comfortable thing he could be wearing while relaxing on the couch after a big meal on a Friday night.

"I think I'm going to change into some comfy clothes," you declare, and his gaze shifts from the TV to you, his mouth full of the tiniest fraction of a cookie. You pause awkwardly. "I...I might have some comfies that will fit you."

He swallows and looks at you without saying anything, but you can tell he's pondering.

"I just feel bad that you're in your day clothes," you add, breaking the silence.

His eyes move back to the TV for a moment and worries at the inside of his cheek in thought. Now that you've been so close to him for such an extended period of time, you've noticed that he does that a lot. Between sentences, while thinking, while listening...you find it so charming. It takes a moment, but he nods.

"That sounds nice."

You smile at him and rise from the couch again - you're starting to really get antsy to fully relax with him there - and head upstairs to your room. You pick out a pair of pajama pants and a sarcastic block-letter t-shirt for yourself, then rummage through your drawers for something for Lars. You look for the oversized brown sweatpants from the thrift store you know you have - you find them buried at the back of your bottom drawer - but you're not sure what top you can put him in. All of your shirts might be too small on him - now, anyway.

You peer your head around the top of the stairs so you can see him from the second floor. He's mid-reach for another cookie, but quickly pulls away when he notices you. "I don't think I have a shirt that will fit you," you relay, trying not to smile. "I'm sorry, Lars."

"Oh, that's okay," he assures. "I have my pink shirt under this." He pulls at the sleeve of his sweater, showing that he's wearing a pink, floral-pattern long undergarment.

You shrug and bring the sweats downstairs. Lars watches you expectantly as you approach and reaches out to take them from you. You hand them over, but both of you jump when your hands briefly touch in the exchange. He reels back a bit, gasping a small hiss of air, and shakes out his wrist. You clutch the sweatpants to your chest, instinctively trying to give him space by tucking your body into itself.

"Oh my gosh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"No, no, it's okay." He stands up from the couch and steps towards you, shakes the rest of the adrenaline out of his hands, and takes the sweats from you carefully. He looks around behind you, towards the stairs, and points that way. "Is the bathroom up there?"

You nod, wide-eyed and unmoving, still cautious of startling him, and still surprised yourself - for a brief, electric moment, your hands touched. You felt guilty for your excitement about an event that clearly pained him. But, you mulled over it...he still moved closer to you, and he still reached for the sweats himself, albeit with obvious strain. You would have expected him to say "nevermind," or worse, end the night and go home. Neither of those things would have been out of character for him.

He must really want to be here. With you.

There's no way he didn't notice your dumb, awestruck face as he stepped past you and headed upstairs to the bathroom, but of course he didn't mention it. You huff and shake your head, trying to pull yourself back together, and make your way back to the couch. Once again, you tuck yourself up, hoping you won't have to get back up again.

A few minutes go by, and you mindlessly watch the TV, waiting for Lars to return. The episode was nearing its end by the time he did.

The familiar heat in your cheeks and stomach return as he emerges with his day clothes draped over his arm, now wearing your sweatpants and just his pink long underwear shirt. The fit of the shirt isn't egregious or anything, but...you can tell he's had it for longer than you've been friends with him. It takes every ounce of strength you have to peel your eyes away from him and place them squarely on the TV, lest you give yourself away.

He shuffles back to the couch and plops down in the same spot he was before - a twinge of sadness nags at you as you realize he hadn't sat any closer this time. He also doesn't lean back and make himself comfortable...in fact, the stiffness that you were so glad to see gone is back again. He slumps forward and clasps his hands in his lap, and you can just barely see the nervous tic playing at his mouth. You stay still and quiet, letting him choose when the silence breaks, if at all.

He takes in a breath of air and sits up straight, clearly prepping himself to say something. You tense, expecting him to announce his departure.

"Why, um..." he clears his throat. "Why do you make me food so much?"

Shit.

Well, this is what you wanted, isn't it? A chance to explain rather than let him get the wrong idea?

"Ah," you start, "well..."

He looks over his shoulder at you, his gaze unwavering, awaiting your response.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, trying to retreat so far into yourself in hopes that the couch will swallow you whole. "I uh...I just really like to cook," you explain cautiously, forcing a nervous laugh, "and it's how I show..." -oh God, how do you put this?- "...that I care."

You let out the breath you didn't know you were holding. Innocuous enough.

His eyes flick to the other side of the room, and time crawls to a halt while you watch the gears turn in his head. It takes him a while to respond.

"I don't see you make food for other people, though." He passes the conversation back to you. Man, you are really in the hot seat right now.

What are you supposed to do with this? You can either play it off that he's not special, it's no big deal, you'd do it for anybody, but that would be shitty and not true. But the only other alternative would be to come clean - that you're completely smitten with him, that you have been for months, that it gives you immense joy to see him enjoying the food you make and the softness it adds to him, physically and emotionally. That all you want to do right now is scoot three feet to your left and touch him, in any way, any way at all, to give some kind of relief to this yearning that's been building in your chest since the day you met him.

He's still waiting for a response.

You let out a heavy sigh through your nose and lift your face to the ceiling. "Alright," you huff, dropping your head and meeting his gaze. "I really..." -you blow out another puff of air- "...really like you, Lars. Specifically. And I have for a long time." You bite the inside of your cheek, which is painfully hot at the moment.

He hasn't moved. Was he listening?

Anything is better than this silence, so you continue. "And it...makes me really happy when you like what I make for you. Ever since the potluck, I--"

His eyebrows raise.

Oh fuck. He doesn't know I noticed him at the potluck. He doesn't know I found him in the lounge. He doesn't know why I started it all. Oh no. Oh, no no no.

You bury your face in your hands. You can't bear to look at him, but there's no way out of this. You spill. You spill it all. The potluck, the lounge, you never did make too much lunch, you just wanted to make things for him, you wanted a reason to be around him. But the floodgates are open now, tears start to soak your cheeks behind your hands and you don't stop there. The truth just pours out of you. You noticed him getting softer, and you thought he was so beautiful, and you just couldn't stop yourself because...

"Because I love you!"

Fucking hell.

The silence that trails your confession lingers in the air so thick, it's hard to breathe.

You don't move your hands. You don't say another word. The only sound that escapes you is the occasional stifled sob out of pure humiliation and guilt. It all hits you like a truck - just because he liked your food didn't mean that he liked what you were doing to him, even if it was just a natural consequence of him accepting what you offered. What if you thought you were making him happy, but you were hurting him instead? You feel disgusted, nauseous, selfish...

"That's okay."

You peek through your fingers and watch him sink back into the couch. He clasps his hands over his stomach in that familiar way he did in the lounge - what is this? Where's the tension? Where's the anger? The betrayal? Surely you must be misreading his body language. You certainly weren't expecting an "I love you" back, but you were expecting something.

"That's okay...?" you whisper, sniffling through the tears.

He takes a breath in. "Oh, yeah. It's fine, I'm fine," he says. He looks down at the coffee table, still sporting two cookies. He seems to ponder them for a moment before leaning forward and grabbing them both, offering one to you and taking a bite out of the other. "You're okay."

You cautiously lower one hand from your face and wipe the wetness on your sweats. You allow yourself a strained smile and take the cookie from his hand...but he doesn't let go right away. Several seconds pass with both of you holding the cookie, in the most intimate - albeit painfully awkward - moment you've shared thus far. He's looking at your hands intently, clearly pondering when to let go, and finally, he does. He takes his time finishing his last cookie, watching for you to finish yours. And you do. He hands you your blue and green glass of milk to finish it off before leaning back again, assuming that same comfortable position he was in before.

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything sooner," you tell him. "I didn't think about it. I thought I was making you happy so I just kept rolling with it, but maybe it was just me."

He knits his brow and shakes his head slowly, purposefully.

"No," he says, more sure than any answer he'd ever given you before.

You let your other hand fall away from your face.

"I was happy. I am happy. I'm happy I made you happy," he says carefully. "And clothes are just clothes," he finishes, picking at the hem of his shirt. Lightning struck through your body when the action revealed a sliver of skin above his waistband, and you pretend not to notice the perfect happy trail he's sporting on his soft lower belly.

"Are you sure?" you ask while allowing your body to unfurl a bit, no longer desperately trying to disappear into yourself.

"Oh, yeah," he assures again. "You didn't ask me to come over today...I asked."

A small, involuntary laugh escapes you in relief. Your meltdown, your confession, your months-long escapade in loving him enough to make there be more of him...it was all okay. Not just because he told you so, but you can see it. For the first time since your spiral, you allow yourself to really look at him - his face is gentle, his eyes are kind, his smile is earnest and warm. It almost seems like he's happy to see you again after you'd been hiding behind your hands for however long.

The two of you sit in silence for some time. The stillness melts away as he closes his eyes and draws in a breath without letting it go. Slowly, timidly, with the slightest tremble, you watch as his hand slides across the couch towards you. It stops just inches away from yours, still folded between your knees.

You stare at it, dumbfounded. There's no way.

You look at his face, completely still, then back to his hand, still waiting patiently beside you. Your breath catches in your throat as you reach in return, lest he pass out from holding his for too long.

The moment your skin touches his, he flinches, but slowly lets out the air he's been holding. Controlled, regulated. Practiced. You let your fingers gently rest on top of his, not daring to do any more. As you are now, your body is on fire, heat radiating from your fingertips and flooding your entire nervous system. You couldn't move even if you wanted to.

He, however, apparently can. He turns his palm up under your hand and curls his fingers to interlock with yours. You follow his lead, reciprocating his movements, as he gently begins to pull. You tilt your head in confusion and look into his face, searching for answers.

His gaze is fixed on your hands, his breathing slow and deep. He continues to pull, slowly enough that you have plenty of time to process what's happening - he's trying to bring you closer. You feel your heart rate skyrocket and try to wrap your head around this, but it's not happening - all you can do is continue to follow his lead. Your arm is fully extended now and he's still pulling, so you scoot closer...and closer...

You're face to face now, and you can feel his breath on your lips. Every siren and cylinder in your body is firing at full capacity, but you maintain your composure, starkly aware of the intense regulation that Lars is maintaining to do this. He trades which hand is holding yours as the one had pulled you as far as it could. You watch his face, waiting for a flash of panic or regret, but it doesn't come.

He has your hand hovering over his body now, and you feel his breathing deepen further. Time slows as he changes the direction he moves your hand - he's not pulling you anymore. Your eyes fly open and dart to your hands as he presses your palm into the soft warmth of his midsection.

Now, you're the one holding your breath.

Desperately, you fight the urge to trace your way to the hem of his shirt, which you fiercely want to remove. You let him guide your hand completely, mesmerized by every supple millimeter he allows you to explore. The fire in your body concentrates somewhere you dare not pay attention to.

You swallow hard and shift your focus back to his face, which to your horror, had been observing you the whole time. Your reaction to finally getting to touch the plushness of his body that you were fully responsible for was on full display.

You start to say something to absolve yourself, but faster than you can think, he sucks in a breath as if about to dive underwater - suddenly, his lips press against yours. Fireworks set off from every nerve in your body, and your hand instinctively grips into the soft flesh with which he'd so generously gifted you contact. He doesn't push you away. His lips, the victims of so many of his nervous tics, are yours now, and you kiss them with all the love they had gone without. They're gentle, unsure, and more still than any normal kiss you've had before, so you take the liberty to allow yours to slowly guide them into movement. You're painfully aware of that concentrated warmth you've been trying to ignore, and chills wash over you as you wonder if he's experiencing the same.

Amidst the swirling in your mind, flooded with combinations of chemicals you've never experienced, you can only make out a single, half-formed thought that flickers by.