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"Shortie," Zeke smiled, dopily, as he watched you work the stove. "I ever tell you how hot you look when you're cookin' for me?"
Amused, you playfully rolled your eyes, biting back a grin as you tore the label off the Jiffy Pop, placing the tin on the burner.
"It's just popcorn, Z," you chucked, glancing at him over your shoulder. "S'not like I'm Martha Stewart."
Eyes glinting with mischief, he smoothly pulled himself off the kitchen island, taking his sweet time stalking toward you before snaking a firm hand around your waist, pulling you flush against his front.
"Oh, you're better than Martha Stewart," he teased, resting his chin in the crook of your neck. "Her burnt popcorn's got nothin' on yours."
"Hey!"
You scoffed, attempting to swat the boy away from you as he broke out in a string of deep, resonating laughter.
Sexy laughter.
"The only reason it ends up burning is 'cause you end up distracting me," you countered with a huff.
"On the contrary, I think you're the one that ends up distracting me," he smirked as he turned you around, thoroughly pleased to see that he was pushing all the right buttons.
He loved it when you were riled up.
"I mean, how am I 'sposed to focus when my pretty girl's standing here, bent over the stove in one of my shirts?"
"Flattery will get you nowhere," you denied, more for yourself than for him.
"It's gotten me this far," he cupped your cheek, pulling you closer.
You let him kiss you—just a quick, teasing press—before wriggling out of his grasp to save what was left of the Jiffy Pop.
He grinned after you, slow and lazy, like he had all the time in the world to watch you fuss over something as small as popcorn.
The thing about going from best friends to boyfriend and girlfriend was that it hadn't actually felt like much of a leap.
Your friendship had always lived in that gray area—long glances that lasted a beat too long, insults that seemed more like flirting, and the kind of comfortable closeness that made other people raise their brows.
Now that you were officially together, all that teasing and almost-touching had simply... evolved.
The banter stayed, but now his hand could slide over your hip without hesitation, and you didn't have to pretend you weren't secretly craving it.
Zeke had been more than thrilled with the change.
Not that he'd ever admit it—he'd just found a hundred little ways to show it.
