IMPATIENT COOKING
They were both varsity. The kind of guys everyone watched without meaning to. Loud on the field, louder in the locker room. And later tonight there was a team party, the usual: music, beer, photos, people yelling their names like they owned them.
So this—right now—was supposed to be normal.
Just cooking. Just two teammates in a tiny apartment kitchen.
The shorter one stood at the stove, stirring a pot with one hand, the other palm flat on the counter. T-shirt clinging to his back from sweat. Compression shorts riding high on his thighs. He looked over his shoulder when he felt the other guy close behind him.
“Don’t,” he said.
The taller one didn’t even smile. Sleeveless shirt, thick arms, chest still pumped from training. He reached out and grabbed the shorter one’s bicep, squeezing like he was checking a lift.
“You’re shaking,” he muttered.
“I’m not.” The shorter one tried to sound annoyed. It came out breathy.
“Yeah. Sure.” The taller one stepped in until their bodies touched. Warm chest to warm back. “Stir.”
“I am stirring.”
“Not like you mean it.”
The shorter one’s jaw tightened. “We’ve got a party.”
“Then act normal later,” the taller one said, voice low at his ear, “and stop acting brave in here.”
The pot burbled. Steam rolled up. The taller one’s hand slid from arm to waist and pulled him back, hard enough that the counter bit into his hips.
“Hey—” the shorter one hissed.
“Tell me to move,” the taller one said. “Say it.”
The shorter one swallowed. “Move.”
The taller one didn’t move. He pressed closer. His fingers spread across the shorter one’s stomach, firm and possessive, like he was holding him in place on purpose.
The shorter one’s breath hitched. “You’re gonna make me spill it.”
“Good.” A pause. “Turn your head.”
The shorter one turned just enough, and the taller one kissed him—fast and rough, no patience. Mouth hard, a little messy. The shorter one made a quiet sound like it surprised him, then grabbed the taller one’s shirt and yanked him in anyway.
“Quiet,” he whispered, even though nobody was there.
“I am quiet,” the taller one whispered back, and kissed down his jaw like he couldn’t help himself.
The timer beeped.
“Seriously?” the shorter one said, frantic. “The burner—”
The taller one leaned past him and clicked the heat down with one hand, like it was nothing, then came back and hooked his fingers under the hem of the T-shirt.
“Off,” he said.
The shorter one hesitated, eyes wide, then pulled it over his head. The taller one’s shirt went next, thrown somewhere dumb. Skin on skin now. Bare backs. Heat. The taller one’s hands dragged down his sides, gripping his hips, pulling him tight again.
“No marks,” the shorter one breathed.
The taller one’s mouth hit his neck anyway, biting just enough to make him shiver. “Then don’t make sounds.”
“I’m not—” he started, then lost it when the taller one pressed him into the counter again, like a warning.
They stumbled out of the kitchen toward the living room, where a big round mirror caught them—two sweaty, half-wild jocks, shoulders and chests slick like they’d just come out of a shower. The taller one behind, eyes locked. The shorter one in front, mouth open, trying to breathe quiet.
“You good?” the taller one asked, rough but steady.
The shorter one nodded fast. “Hurry. We have to go.”
The taller one’s hands slid over his waist again, slow like he was choosing control.
“Yeah,” he said. “We’ll go.”
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