Red, White and Steamy

Chapter 2 : Cooking Up Conflict

The first morning in the penthouse was anything but peaceful. The sun barely peeked over the New York skyline when Donald Trump emerged from his bedroom, dressed in a golf polo and slacks. He strode into the kitchen, looking forward to a hearty breakfast. However, his plans were interrupted by the sound of running water and the distinct aroma of coffee already brewing.

Joe Biden, already dressed casually in a University of Delaware sweatshirt and jeans, was at the counter, preparing his morning ritual of fruit and oatmeal. He looked up as Trump entered, raising an eyebrow. "Morning, Donald," he said, a hint of challenge in his voice. "Didn't expect to see you up this early."

Trump grunted, eyeing the healthy spread on the counter. "Morning, Joe. Well, some of us have important things to do," he retorted, reaching for the fridge. He pulled out eggs, bacon, and a bottle of ketchup, setting them on the counter with a decisive thud. "And by the way, that's not breakfast; that's bird food."

Biden chuckled, shaking his head. "You know, not everything has to be greasy and unhealthy."

Trump raised an eyebrow, cracking an egg into a pan. "Says the guy who never met a waffle cone he didn't like. But hey, to each his own. I need real food to fuel my day."

As they cooked side by side, the tension between them was palpable. It wasn't just about breakfast; it was a clash of lifestyles, philosophies, and everything else they stood for. The quiet war of morning routines was only the beginning.

Their truce, however uneasy, was quickly tested when the doorbell rang. Biden glanced at Trump, his eyes wide with alarm. "You expecting someone?" he asked, frozen in place, clearly startled by the unexpected intrusion.

Trump, with an exaggerated sigh, put down his spatula. "No one knows we're here," he muttered, heading toward the door. He opened it to reveal a young, eager-looking journalist holding a microphone. "Good morning! I'm with New York Today. Could I ask a few questions about your unique living arrangement?"

Biden stood in shock, unable to move or react. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly as he tried to process the situation.

Trump, however, was quick on his feet. He leaned against the doorframe, a smirk playing on his lips. "Listen, sweetheart, I know you're dying for a scoop, but this isn't a reality show—oh wait, it kind of is." He flashed a quick grin. "But seriously, take a hike. We're off the record today."

The journalist opened her mouth to protest, but Trump cut her off. "No need to thank me for the headline, 'Trump and Biden: Roomies!' Now, scoot." Without waiting for a response, he shut the door firmly, locking it for good measure.

He turned to see Biden still standing there, visibly shaken. "Hey, Joe," Trump called, snapping him out of his daze. "You okay?"

Biden blinked, finally finding his voice. "Yeah, just... wasn't expecting that."

Trump walked over and poured a glass of water, handing it to Biden. As Biden reached out to take the glass, their fingers brushed lightly, sending an unexpected jolt through both of them. Trump hesitated for a fraction of a second, his usual confident demeanor faltering as he felt a strange spark at the touch. Biden's eyes widened slightly, the sensation catching him off guard.

Trump quickly pulled back, clearing his throat. "Here, drink this. You look like you've seen a ghost," he said, trying to play it cool, though a slight flush colored his cheeks.

Biden took the glass, sipping slowly as he tried to collect himself. Trump watched for a moment, then shrugged, as if to downplay his concern. "Can't have you passing out on me," he added nonchalantly, turning back to the kitchen. "Though I'm sure the media would love that headline."