ocean eyes || c.evans

vi.

Needless to say, that didn't last very long. Although you hadn't spoken of it yet, his... day-to-day attire wasn't exactly letting you forget what had transpired.

You couldn't fault the man for wanting to be comfortable in his own home, and you were well aware that you were in the middle of a heatwave in the Californian summer, but... he could, at the very least, put on a shirt every once in a blue moon.

And you let him know as much.

It was the middle of the night, and, much to your chagrin, sleep evaded you. You had retired absurdly early for your personal routine, which often consisted of binge watching something with Dodger curled up beside you, or reading in the spacious open floor plan of the living room.

It probably had something to do with the man in the room beside yours.

It wasn't anything personal, but his return threw you off. You had to learn to adjust, but that was becoming increasingly harder the more eye contact you were making with his nipples instead of his actual eyes.

Huffing a sigh of exasperation, you threw the covers off of yourself and trepidatiously swung your feet off your bed and onto the ground. The floor was cold and smooth, and in the night time chill – barely there, in all honesty – you shivered.

Tiptoeing to your door, you cracked it open silently, hoping not to disturb the other residents – mainly Dodger. You knew how excited he got, and his excitement would only serve to work against you and Chris' sleep cycle.

Once you were certain that the door wouldn't creak, you slid through the crack you'd made and padded your way down the hall into the lounge, footsteps as light as you could keep them.

"Couldn't sleep?"

Your shriek was nothing short of embarrassing as you spun around in surprise to see a smug Chris taking something out from the top shelf – flour, you recognized – before leaning against the kitchen counter to peer at you in amusement.

You inwardly groaned at his outfit choice. Or rather, lack thereof. "Could you please, for once, put on a goddamn shirt?"

His brow arched as he appraised you, baby blue eyes taking in your ensemble. "Put on some pants, and then we'll discuss it."

Suddenly, you were hyper aware of your bare legs, underwear barely concealed by the oversized t-shirt you had opted to sleep in. Tugging the hem down a little, you shuffled awkwardly on your toes, before deciding to change the subject altogether. "Why're you up?"

"I asked you first."

You debated being honest – telling him he was the reason why – but not even you could admit that to yourself just yet. So you shrugged, and gave him a non-committal answer at best. "Wasn't tired."

He squinted at you in the dim kitchen lighting, trying to detect any hidden meaning to your words. Satisfied at finding none so obvious, he shrugged. "I'm still a bit jetlagged and decided to make something. I'm thinking cupcakes... For some reason, they're all I crave after a long flight."

You immediately perked up at the mention of cupcakes. Baking was a favourite pastime of yours, and the prospect of doing so now was tempting. "Need a sous chef?"

"I would love a sous chef."

——————

"I am now convinced you have no idea what you're doing," you said flatly.

"Oh, only now?" He grinned. "What tipped you off?"

"The eggshells, mostly." Your eyebrow was arched in amusement, watching as Chris tried – and failed miserably at – digging out the eggshells he had accidentally incorporated into the batter. "Like, seriously, would you like some batter with those eggshells?"