JayJay POV
We were supposed to make dinner.
That was the plan.
After the ocean, after the kiss, after the confession that cracked something open in both of us.
We dried off in silence.
Not awkward.
Just heavy.
Like the air knew what we'd said and didn't want to interrupt.
I wore one of his shirts — oversized, soft, still warm from the sun. It hung off my shoulder like it belonged there.
Keifer couldn't stop staring.
I couldn't stop pretending not to notice.
We stood in the kitchen, surrounded by ingredients we didn't know how to use.
He held a tomato like it was a fragile metaphor.
I grabbed the garlic.
He leaned against the counter, eyes on me like I was the only thing in the room worth burning for.
"You're gonna chop that?" he asked.
"Obviously."
"You look too good to be trusted with knives."
I rolled my eyes.
Then turned.
Then saw the way he was looking at me.
Like I was the answer to every question he'd ever been afraid to ask.
I dropped the garlic.
He stepped forward.
I didn't move.
Because the air was thick.
Because the silence was loud.
Because I wanted him.
He reached out.
Touched my jaw.
Gentle.
Like he was still asking.
I kissed him.
Hard.
Hungry.
His hands found my waist.
Mine tangled in his hair.
The tomato rolled off the counter.
Neither of us cared.
We kissed like we were starving.
Like the ocean hadn't been enough.
Like the kitchen was ours and the world could wait.
He lifted me onto the counter.
I wrapped my legs around him.
His shirt was still damp from the ocean.
My lip gloss smeared across his mouth.
We didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
Because this?
This was louder than dinner.
This was messier than garlic.
This was love.
He kissed down my jaw, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing me.
I tugged him closer.
He laughed against my neck.
"You're dangerous," he whispered.
"You're late," I whispered back.
"For what?"
"For loving me like this."
He pulled back.
Looked at me.
Eyes soft.
Voice wrecked.
"I've been loving you like this since the day you told me off in front of your entire friend group."
I blinked.
Then kissed him again.
Because dinner could wait.
But this?
This couldn't.
We stayed like that.
Wrapped in each other.
Salt still on our skin.
Sunlight fading outside.
And when we finally pulled apart, breathless and ruined, he whispered—
"I'd burn every meal if it meant kissing you instead."
I smirked.
"Good. Because you're banned from cooking."
He laughed.
I kissed him again.
Because this?
This was ours.