ᨳଓ . newly-wed sweetheart!reader cooks for toxic!rafe
the kitchen was warm with the scent of melted butter, fresh herbs, and the faint sweetness of lavender drifting in through the open window. golden evening light spilled across the marble countertops, making everything glow in soft honeyed hues. the pale blue apron rafe had bought you for your anniversary fluttered around your legs each time you twirled between the stove and the counter, the ribbon bow swaying against the small of your back.
your freshly manicured hands moved with careful eagerness as you worked. you hadn't cooked for rafe in what felt like forever, and he'd certainly made his disappointment known—not just to you, but to every one of his friends and their girlfriends whenever they'd come over. his mouth would curl with that familiar teasing grin as he'd tell them all about the fast food you'd brought home instead of making dinner yourself.
today, though, you were determined to be the good girl he'd married.
with quiet concentration, you assembled warm sandwiches and stirred a pot of creamy soup, silently hoping he'd like it. maybe it'd put him in a better mood. maybe he'd smile.
the sudden slam of the front door echoed through the house.
a second later, his bag hit the hardwood floor with a heavy thud.
"i'm home."
no "hey, honey."
no "baby."
not even your name.
your stomach tightened.
shit.
he was mad, wasn't he?
lost in thought, your fingers slipped for only a second. your knuckle grazed the scorching rim of the pot.
"ah!"
you yelped, immediately bringing your finger between your lips, sucking softly against the sharp, white-hot sting. every time you pulled it away, the pain flared all over again.
"fuck are you doin'?"
you looked up.
rafe stood in the doorway, one eyebrow furrowed as he looked you over from head to toe. his eyes kept drifting back to the finger tucked between your lips.
before you could react, he crossed the kitchen in a few long strides.
his large hand wrapped around your wrist, gently pulling it toward him so he could inspect the burn. his touch was firm but careful.
you suddenly felt the need to explain yourself.
"um... i— it... this... well, my finger..."
his eyes lifted to meet yours.
you could never tell if your flustered stammering amused him or irritated him.
maybe both.
"i burnt my finger while... while cooking for you," you mumbled, gesturing timidly toward the stove.
his expression softened—only a little.
"well," he said, his voice lighter than before, "you gon' let me taste it?"
your entire face brightened.
hope bloomed inside you so quickly it almost hurt.
you hurried back to the stove, scooping a small spoonful of soup before carefully blowing on it. once it had cooled enough, you held the spoon out to him.
he leaned forward and tasted it.
for a brief second, he said nothing.
then his face twisted.
"jesus..." he muttered.
"this is shit."
he turned toward the sink, spitting it out before wiping his hands absentmindedly against the front of your apron.
the casual contact sent a flicker of warmth through your chest, cruelly clashing against the heavy disappointment settling there.
you stared down at the floor.
"will you, uh... will you just order some popeyes or some shit?"
"...okay."
your voice was barely above a whisper.
you nodded without looking up.
"thanks, doll."
he leaned down, pressing a quick kiss against your forehead before turning and disappearing toward your shared bedroom.
the kitchen suddenly felt much quieter.
the soup still simmered gently on the stove, filling the room with warmth that no longer reached you.
