Is This Enough ||MxM || Lgbtq+

Chapter 6

Leonardo's P.O.V

I left my phone on the bed, the urge to hurl it against the wall growing stronger with each passing second. Pacing back and forth, my thoughts churned. It had to be the network, right? A simple outage? Nothing more?

But doubt slithered in, whispering worst-case scenarios. I clenched my fists. I couldn't let my own mind unravel over this. I stopped mid-step, exhaling sharply. There was only one thing that could quiet the noise in my head.

I stepped into a tranquil abode, unaware that night had already fallen. The inky darkness bathed the steps in an eerie glow, casting a spooky ambience. At least now, the shadows no longer frightened me.

I worked with precision, measuring each ingredient as if I had trained in the culinary arts except my expertise had cost nothing but time and practice. I opened the spice cabinet, frowning at its emptiness. No paprika. No herbs. Just salt and pepper.

No matter. I cracked the eggs into a bowl, the rhythmic whisking soothing my nerves. As butter sizzled in the pan, melting into golden pools, I poured in the eggs, watching as they swirled and set.

Cooking had a way of slowing my racing mind, forcing me to focus on the present. The sizzle of butter. The rich aroma of eggs. The simple satisfaction of creating something with my own hands.

For now, that was enough

Hearing a voice behind me, I jolted, every nerve in my body electrified with fear, as I spun around and found him standing right behind me. "What are you doing?"

He was silent, watching me, his presence as unnerving as the darkness outside. My grip tightened around the pan, but instinct took over. I set it back on the counter and swiftly turned off the stove.

"What am I doing?" I muttered, more to myself than to him.

The answer came almost immediately, slipping past my lips before I could even think."Stress cooking."

He retreated, pressing his back against the kitchen sink, his gaze drifting over the cluttered counter. Broken eggshells littered the surface, yolk pooling in small, glistening puddles.

His brow furrowed as he looked back at me. "You're stress cooking omelets?" he asked, his tone hovering between amusement and disbelief.

I held up the whisk like a makeshift weapon, leveling it between us as if it could actually protect me. "Hey, don't judge. We all have our own ways of dealing with things. Mine just happens to be tasty."

He chuckled softly, lifting his hands in mock surrender. A fond smile tugged at his lips. "No judgment here. My mom's omelets were the best. The aroma of eggs would cling to the house for days, and every time I left the kitchen, the scent would follow me. She used to write 'We love you' on top of mine with ketchup."

He paused, his smile dimming slightly. "And that didn't change when I came out. She still did it, every time. I know it's corny, but that's why I love breakfast."

His face shifted, something bittersweet settling in his eyes."Well. . . loved."

I never meant to make him uncomfortable, but the shift in his expression made it clear I had. Guilt twisted in my stomach. "I know I'll never measure up to your mom," I admitted, forcing a lighthearted grin. "But I do make a mean omelet!"

He pushed off the counter and strode toward the kitchen table. "I'll be the judge of that!" he declared, dropping into a chair with exaggerated confidence.

He pulled out his phone, tapping at the screen before adding, "Do your thing. I won't interfere anymore."

Taking that as my cue, I turned back to the stove, focusing on the familiar rhythm of cooking. As the eggs began to set around the edges, I used a spatula to gently pull them toward the center, letting the uncooked mixture spread outward. The scent of butter and eggs filled the kitchen, wrapping around me like a warm embrace.

Once the base was firm enough, I grabbed diced bell peppers and a handful of grated cheddar from the fridge, scattering them over the top. Carefully, I folded the omelet in half, forming a perfect crescent.

The outer edges had crisped to a delicate golden brown, just the way I liked it. With a quick flick of my wrist, I slid it onto a plate, letting it rest for a moment to allow the flavors to meld.

Switching off the stove, I reached for the ketchup and hesitated before squeezing a message onto the surface. Thanks for letting me stay here.

Or at least, that was the plan. The ketchup refused to cooperate, smearing into an uneven mess. A few letters were legible, but the rest was just a red blur. I sighed, shaking my head at my failed attempt.

Still, the sentiment was there. Hopefully, he'd get the message. I got cutlery and placed the plate of food in front of him, interrupting his intense concentration on the video he was watching. With a warm smile I said, "Here you go, breakfast for dinner!"

He returned my smile with an easy grin, then glanced down at the messy condiment creation on the omelet. With a curious tilt of his head, he asked, "What were you trying to say?"

Shame burned in my cheeks as I exhaled, "Thanks for letting me stay here. But it got messed up." The words tasted awkward as they left my mouth, and heat crept up my cheeks.

He took a bite of the food, nodding in approval, "I like it. Ketchup art is tricky. Some say even impossible. Even the best of us haven't mastered it yet." He smirked. "But hey, I'm sure you'll get the hang of it."

"Well, time to make my own," I said, already turning toward the stove, my hands itching to get back to work until his voice stopped me mid-step.

"Don't be ridiculous!" He shook his head, "Grab a plate, fork and knife and we're splitting this."

I hesitated, but something about the certainty in his voice made me comply. Sitting across from him, I watched as he carefully divided the omelet and slid my half onto an empty plate.

Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed this chapter <3