#you do

Edward was a man above cooking, he tells you, that a mind like his doesn't belong in the kitchen when it could be used in his laboratory. The truth is that he doesn't have a clue what to do and hides his embarrassment with arrogance.

When you invite him over to your place, he doesn't reply but shows up an hour later anyways. He almost always does this, saying that you should just know when he is and isn't going to accept your offer. He complains when you open the door surprised to see him, like it's common sense to show up unannounced- well, in his case it is.

"Baking? Really?" He side-eyes the ingredients sprawled on your kitchen counter, poking at a bag of apples. "At least these are good." You brush off his comment and pick up the bag of flour.

"I was going to make a pie, care to join?" You ask, ridiculously batting your eyes at him with fake begging. He looks at you as if you told him to never tell a riddle ever again. "Oh please, Eddie? Just this one time, you won't even have to do much." You set the bag of flour down and walk over to him, grabbing his hand to hold. You can see the conflict going on in his mind, slowly he relents and gives out the most dramatic sigh of the month. "Fine, I will help you bake a pie..."

With a hug, which he reciprocates lightly by patting your arm, you get to work. He's put in charge of cutting the apples, which he doesn't complain about since it's better than making the dough- though he takes pauses in between apples to watch as you skillfully make the dough yourself. Yes, he mocks you for not using measuring tools, but to himself he thinks it's slightly cool you can measure just by eyes alone. He'd never say that out loud, especially not to your face.

When you two are done and put it in the oven, he sits himself down on one of your bar stools, laying down on the counter like he just made a house. "I don't know how you do it." He mutters, resting his head on his arms as he watches you rinse the dishes. "It's easy!" You reply, embarrassing him for having you heard what he said, "First I get all the ingredients..." He scoffs at your teasing, pushing off the counter and sitting up.

"I hate you." He groans, twirling the stool around to look over to your living room instead. It's a bit messy, but he doesn't mind, taking the time to memorize things he's seen and new stuff- like the pile of books on your coffee table, that's new, perhaps his habit of reading is rubbing off on you. He chuckles to himself at the thought.