Prologue
(Tien's POV)
I’ve been baking since I was twenty. For most people, it’s just a hobby. For me, it was how I survived college. Midterms, hangovers, heartbreak, there was nothing a warm cookie couldn’t soften. Especially when you lived with a six-foot-two athlete who ate like ate like someone who’d never seen food before and praised your desserts like they were sacred offerings.
Lucas and I met freshman year. He showed up on move-in day with a duffel bag full of gym clothes, a box of protein powder, and absolutely no idea how to cook anything that didn’t come frozen. Olive skin, short brown hair, the kind that always looks like he just rolled out of bed, green eyes behind wire-framed glasses and when he smiled, it felt like he was letting you in on some private joke.
I, on the other hand, was a five-foot-six nerdy twink with pale skin and brown eyes that made me look younger than I was. I’d been unpacking a batch of muffins onto my desk when he walked in, took one look, and said, “Oh, hell yes. I picked the right roommate.”
We’ve lived together ever since.
By sophomore year, it had become a ritual. Every couple days, I’d bake something, and he’d eat half of it before it cooled. He gave me the nickname “Tien” somewhere along the way, because apparently “Etienne” was “too fancy for a dude who made brownies.” That was Lucas’ logic.
We flirt. We always have. Stupid little comments, winks across the kitchen, him flexing shirtless like I’m supposed to be impressed, which, unfortunately, I am. I like looking at him, even if I feel guilty about it. Sometimes, when I catch myself staring too long, I bake more just to have something to do with my hands. I know nothing will ever come out of it, but I still enjoy the fantasy.
I told him once. I was emotional, and it was late, and I said more than I should have. I remember staring at his green eyes, trying to hold them, and then looking away because it was too much. I told him I liked him...maybe more than I should. He didn’t freak out. He just gave me this soft look and said, “Tien… I love you, man. Just… in a bros-who-eat-cookies-together kinda way.”
And weirdly, that was fine. It didn’t change anything. He never pulled away or made things weird. If anything, he held me tighter after that.
Now we’re both pushing thirty. He’s a personal trainer. I’m drowning in my PhD. And even with the chaos of real adult life, the baking never stopped. The teasing never slowed. The rules we made for ourselves stayed in place.
Mostly.
Because every now and then, he says something that sticks with me and lingers longer than it should.
And even if I don’t expect anything to change… I still imagine what it would feel like if it did.
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Snickerdoodles
A kiss for a cookie. Seems fair… until it isn't.
I’m halfway through my PhD in botany and two months behind on sleep. My kitchen has more bags of flour than I do pairs of socks, and I’m currently juggling a dissertation, two research assistantships, and a mountain of unpaid email replies. I now have chin-length blond hair I keep brushing out of my face.
Meanwhile, Lucas; my best friend since freshmen year is thriving. We’ve lived together since college, and even after I told him I had feelings for him sophomore year, our friendship didn’t just survive, it got stronger.
He’s a personal trainer now, with his own clients and weekend bootcamps in the park. He’s always been handsome, but these days he’s grown into it even more. The stubble shows up by noon, framing his jaw in a way that makes it hard not to stare. He still has that easy, sun-warmed glow, and somehow looks even better every time he takes his shirt off. The kind of guy who says things like “nothing beats a good pump” while adjusting his weights, then comes home to eat my baked treats and still manages to keep rock-hard abs that look carved by divine intervention.
Every week without fail, he shows up in the kitchen after work, still in his gym shorts, face flushed from a workout, abs glistening with sweat. My eyes always linger longer than they should, tracing the line from his chest down to the waistband, memorising the way his shoulders roll as he leans on the counter. He catches his breath, looks at me like nothing’s happening, and says:
“You got anything sweet, man? I’m having a sugar craving.”
Used to be a casual thing; I’d bake for stress relief, and Lucas would demolish whatever I made in five minutes flat. Cookies, blondies, banana bread… gone. He started calling it his “Tien tax,” like a joke that just for being my roommate and best friend, he’s entitled to a cut of whatever comes out of the oven. I never minded.. Feeding Lucas is half the reason I bake. The way he moans over a warm snickerdoodle makes my whole body tighten, like he’s tasting something far filthier than a cookie.
A month ago, I was stress-baking and made a batch of snickerdoodles. Lucas came back from a morning run just as I pulled them from the oven. He was still flushed, breathing hard, wiping sweat from his brow with the bottom of his shirt. His abs caught the light, every ridge sharp, a bead of sweat sliding down slow like it knew I was watching.
Heat pooled low in my stomach, my cock thickening in my shorts before I could stop it. I forced my gaze back to the tray just as I thought he was about to catch me staring at him, all sweat-soaked and gorgeous, and pretended to fuss with the parchment paper. I barely had time to warn him before he grabbed one, still piping hot.
“Lucas - careful, they’re -”
Too late. He popped the cookie in his mouth, then froze, eyes wide.
“Holy fuck, these are unreal,” he mumbled, still chewing, somehow not minding the burn. Then he turned to me, that dumb sunny smile lighting up his face, and said:
“These cookies are so good, I could kiss you right now.”
I laughed, flipping the next tray onto the cooling rack. “I should start charging you for how much you eat.”
He reached for another and said through a mouthful, “You charge in cookies or compliments?”
“Do you even know how much almond flour costs?” I raised an eyebrow. “This is a premium service.”
Lucas wiped his fingers on a dish towel, then flexed his bicep like a cartoon character. “I can pay you in personal training sessions. You know... trade your cookies for gains.”
I groaned, tossing a spoon at him. “Not everything is solved by biceps, Luc.”
But he just smirked, totally unbothered. Like always. I took it the way I always do. Just our usual back-and-forth. Lucas flirts like it’s second nature, and I’ve learned to brush it off. It’s easier that way. Safer not to read too much into it.
That afternoon faded like all the others. Still, I didn’t end up baking again after that. Maybe it was the finals rush. Or the constant deadlines. Or how my lab work started eating every spare second. Whatever the reason, the oven stayed cold.
Apparently, Lucas noticed. Or maybe he just really missed the cookies. Either way, once my schedule finally lightened up, he asked if I could make another batch.
He said it like a joke, but as he pulled on his jacket and grabbed his keys, he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to my lips. Just; soft, quick, like it meant nothing.
He pulled back just enough to smirk and said, “Consider that my payment, please. I’ve been craving those cookies so bad I almost dreamed about them last night.”
Then he winked and walked out like he hadn’t just short-circuited my entire morning. I didn’t even have time to react before he was out the door.
And somehow, that became a thing.
Lucas started trading kisses for cookies. A little more affection each time. A longer hug, a slow kiss on the cheek, fingers brushing my wrist while he licked chocolate off them like he was doing it for show. I let it happen. Maybe I was curious. Maybe I was stupid. But it felt harmless.
Until it didn’t.
Last night, Lucas had mentioned how much he missed the snickerdoodles I made a month ago, the ones he nearly inhaled in a single sitting. He asked if I could make them again since I was finally a little free from work.
This morning, just as I got back from the store with flour, cinnamon, and way too much sugar, I was setting the ingredients on the counter when Lucas stepped out of his room. T-shirt clinging to his chest, joggers low on his hips, gym bag slung over his shoulder. His hair was messy and damp like he’d just showered.
His eyes lit up. “Tien... are you making snickerdoodles?”
Before I could answer, he dropped the bag right on the floor and crossed the kitchen in a few fast strides.
We exchanged a kiss. Not the usual peck. Not the playful brush of lips he’d been pulling for weeks. This was different.
His hands came up to cup my face, fingers warm and firm along my jaw. His lips parted mine, and his tongue slid in slow and sure. He kissed me like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting, and my baking wasn’t the only thing he’d been craving.
I kissed him back. Hard.
And just like that, he pulled away with a grin, grabbed his gym bad and headed for the door.
“I didn't know you would start making them today,” he said over his shoulder. “Thank you so much Tien. I can’t wait to taste some after work..”
Then he was gone, off to the gym like nothing had just happened.
I stood there, flushed and breathing hard, staring at the ingredients I hadn’t even unpacked yet.
And then I started baking.
Snickerdoodles.
Smiling to myself like an idiot as I measured out the sugar.
But things had changed between us. This kiss wasn’t like the others. It meant something. At least, it did to me. And as the scent of cinnamon filled the kitchen, all I could think about was the way he’d held my face. The way his stubble scraped against my chin when he kissed me rough and hungry like he’d been holding back for too long. Like he needed it. Like he needed me or maybe I was reading too much into it...
So, I kept baking. Still tasting him on my lips. Still wondering what the hell would come next.
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