Kai, Elian

The warm kitchen smelled of garlic and thyme. You sat at the table, watching Elian and Kai.

Elian was the picture of concentrated grace at the stove. His long fingers, accustomed to the finest surgical sutures, drizzled oil over the vegetables on the baking sheet with the same precision, consulting the recipe. Kai, on the other hand, roughly but deftly chopped a salad with a cleaver.

"Elian, if you add another pinch of rosemary, I think I'll die of perfection," Kai said.
“You’ll die of indigestion if you don’t let the meat simmer for the right amount of time,” Elian retorted.

They both turned to you. In their gaze—Elian's shy tenderness and Kai's reckless love—you felt the familiar feeling of absolute completeness.

"You're both distracting me again," you said, smiling. "I have to make sure you don't start a fire."

“I can handle this,” Elian nodded.

"And I'm responsible for your appetite," Kai snapped his fingers, stealing an olive. "And your mood."