I stand here, jaw dangling in disbelief. Cam is frozen in place, eye twitching like he’s trying to mentally Ctrl+Z the whole situation. Meanwhile, Boomerang sits with smug satisfaction, licking his lips like the furry little goblin he is. Probably thinking this is the best episode of ‘Dinner with Drama’ he’s ever seen.
“Shall I order some food?” Cam offers, voice stripped of hope, surveying the carnage like he’s searching for survivors.
I respond with the only move that makes sense—a long, unapologetic gulp of wine. “We could just eat off the floor, au naturel style,” I suggest, gesturing to the sauce-slick tiles. “I hear my cooking really shines on a ceramic base.”
I brace for Cam’s signature cleaning frenzy—the one where he scrubs grout like it insulted his mother—but instead his jaw tightens, eyes flutter shut, and… nothing. No lecture. No mop. Just quiet despair.
I think I broke him.
Then, without a word, he kneels into the steaming puddle of sauce, dips a finger, and when he rises, he trails it onto the tip of my nose.
Oh. It’s on.
He forgets I’m chaos incarnate. Food fight? I’ll take him down in heels.
“I hope you’re ready to lose,” I growl, striding over with purpose, grabbing a meatball off the counter, and shoving it straight into his mouth—sauce, smirk and all. My hand lingers, deliberately smearing his lips.
He chews, one brow raised in silent defiance… until the grimace kicks in.
I mean, fair.
My cooking tonight is more hazardous than haute cuisine. But he tried, bless him.
“Definitely getting takeaway,” he mutters through laughter, closing in as I back away, already plotting my next edible weapon.
Spaghetti—cooling in the sieve like it’s resigned to fate. I grab a fistful with villainous intent, but Cam lunges first.
Problem is, the entire kitchen floor now doubles as a slippery sauce rink. We skid, flail, and collapse in a tangled mess of limbs, pasta, and poor life choices.
Boomerang observes from his perch, tail flicking, unimpressed. Still licking his lips.
We hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, sauce, and questionable decision-making. Cam groans beneath me—not from pain, but from the sheer absurdity of our spaghetti-strewn collapse. I’m straddling his thighs, one hand planted in a puddle of sauce, the other gripping spaghetti like a gladiator’s whip.
Boomerang watches like this is dinner and a show. He’s not wrong.
“Nice tackle,” I murmur, breath hitching as Cam looks up at me—sauce smeared across his jaw, eyes molten and locked on mine. There’s laughter lingering in his expression, but something else too. Something hungry.
His hands slide up to my hips, deliberately slow, smearing tomato trails along my shirt as he pulls me closer. “You’re covered in food,” he murmurs, voice low and delicious.
“You started it,” I whisper back, letting the spaghetti slip from my fingers as I lean in, chest flush against his. My heartbeat drums against my ribs erratically.
Cam grins, then tilts his head and presses a kiss to the tip of my nose, licking away the last of the sauce he smeared there earlier. “Technically, Boomerang started it,” he says, but his voice is rough now, teasing turning into tension.
His hands slide up my back, gripping harder, anchoring me.
“You do realise,” I breathe against his lips, “this is the worst date night ever.”
He smirks, brushing sauce-sticky fingers down my jaw. “Disaster’s kind of our foreplay.”
And then he kisses me—slow at first, soft and savoury, like he’s savouring both me and the madness we’ve just created. I melt into him, gripping his shirt with sticky fingers, not caring about the mess. The kitchen fades around us, replaced by heat and taste and want.
Somewhere, Boomerang sneezes.
We’re tangled on the kitchen floor, bodies slick with sauce and laughter, heat crackling in the air like a low flame refusing to die down. Cam’s beneath me, his breath hot against my cheek, fingers digging gently into my hips as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold me right here—mess and all.
The moment stretches out, soft and charged. His dilated eyes search mine, lips parted like he’s halfway between saying something tender and doing something reckless.
I press my hands to his chest, feeling the thud of his heartbeat—steady, hungry, mine. “You good down there?” I whisper, teasing, my voice a husky taunt.
