what a wicked thing to do (to make me dream of you)

Chapter 6

·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚HARRY˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

It’s the middle of the night when Harry finds his omega puttering around the dimly lit kitchen. Besides Louis’ agile movements, the manor is still and serene, guarded carefully by the stream of moonlight that filters through the arched window.

“What are you doing?” He whispers, watching in confusion as Louis attempts to stir what appears to be a large pot of boiling water with a slotted ladle.

Louis whirls around at the voice, but when their eyes meet, he visibly relaxes. Harry tries to ignore how much that pleases him. “I couldn’t sleep,” the omega whispers back. “Had a really bad craving for soft-boiled eggs.”

“I didn’t know you knew how to make soft-boiled eggs,” Harry yawns sleepily as he shuffles over to the stovetop so they’re shoulder to shoulder.

“I can’t,” Louis pouts up prettily at him. “But I figured that if someone as utterly stupid as you can manage it, then a class valedictorian should be able to figure it out.”

“Co-valedictorian,” Harry nudges him for the slight.

“Whatever,” Louis huffs but his attention is usurped by the eggs that shuffle restlessly on the bottom of the pot. “I’m a little confused.”

“What about, sweetheart?” Harry forces himself to assume an air of nonchalance at the nickname that’s escaped his lips, but Louis still seems too concerned about his eggs to focus on anything else.

“It said to fill the water up to one inch?” He questions, still stirring around the boiling water. Harry doesn’t have the heart to tell him that his stirring accomplishes absolutely nothing. “But the eggs aren’t covered so how will they cook? And then I was looking at this little chart of all the eggs and how many minutes to cook them for but I realized I don’t even know which ones I like. What does jammy mean?”

“Ah, these are the questions we need to be asking,” Harry can’t help but tease as he takes another look at the pot of water.

“Harry,” Louis whines out quietly, the noise like melty honey in the crisp air of the kitchen. Harry is almost sure the omega is resisting the urge to stomp his foot. “What the fuck does set whites mean? That doesn’t sound like something I would enjoy.”

“You know, you really don’t have to stir these. The water cooks them when they’re still.” Harry says idly, taking the ladle from the omega and setting it down on the counter. “You like fully set whites with a mostly jammy yolk.”

“I don’t know what those words mean,” Louis grumbles, but he stands on his tiptoes to peer into the pot and Harry is overcome with the urge to wrap him up and keep him safe until the end of time. Or at least give him a forehead kiss. He looks too precious not to. So he does.

Instead of getting pushed away as he anticipated, Louis only leans into him, still grumbling about burning the eggs.

“You can’t burn eggs,” Harry informs him, dodging the pinch that Louis tries to dole out. “You can only overcook them.”

“That is literally the same thing,” Louis rolls his eyes as he separates them to grab a plate.

Harry watches as he reaches high atop the cupboards and a flash of his tanned skin peeks through his violet satin sleep shirt.

“I can feel you staring and it’s creeping me out,” Louis says drily as he brings the plate over. “You know, when you stare sometimes you look a bit like a serial killer. Don’t know if anyone has told you that before.”