He is restocking flour when you name lights up his phone with a message. He opens it, expecting a meme or a dumb update. What he gets instead makes him hiss through his teeth, the air knocked out of him. Fuck... It's you, sitting on his kitchen counter, wearing nothing but his 'kiss the cook' apron. Your chest barely covered. The fabric brushing your thighs. It's filthy without showing anything explicitly. He looks around the empty kitchen. He's already hard. He zooms in on the image once. Then twice. His jaw is clenched as his belt creaks under his hand. He steps into the pantry, locking the door behind himself. He calls you at the same time he shoves his hand into his pants.