My Stepbrother, My Enemy {BL}-Chapter 51: Gordon Ramsay Would Be Proud

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The morning sunlight spilled lazily across the kitchen counters, warm and golden, but my mood didn’t match the vibe. My stomach grumbled so loudly it could’ve been mistaken for distant thunder. I hadn’t eaten much last night, just a sad combination of chips, cookies, and hopefully my feelings of worthlessness but, now I was paying for it.

Dragging my feet across the cool wooden floor, I yanked open the fridge and stared blankly at its contents like they might magically assemble themselves into breakfast. Eggs. Milk. Bread. Some vegetables. A suspicious-looking jar of something green.

"Okay," I muttered to myself, rubbing my eyes. "How hard can breakfast be?"

The answer, I soon realized, was very.

I’d never been what you’d call a ’kitchen person". My cooking skills were... limited. Okay, mostly non-existent. Every attempt I’d ever made ended in mild disaster or at least enough smoke to make my mom ban me from touching the stove again back when it was just the two of us. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and right now, I was starving enough to risk it.

"Eggs and toast," I said aloud, pointing at the ingredients like a general assigning soldiers. "You. And you. We’re doing this."

The eggs, naturally, did not respond.

I grabbed a pan, turned on the stove, and cracked the first egg with what I thought was a professional level of confidence until half the shell fell into the pan. I froze, watching it sizzle mockingly in the oil. "Okay... protein’s good for you," I mumbled, trying to convince myself this was fine.

The second egg somehow exploded more violently than the first, leaving streaks of yolk across the counter and a sad, gooey mess that vaguely resembled modern art.

A tiny hiss of pain escaped my lips the moment a piece of sizzling egg popped from the pan and landed on my wrist. "Ow—damn it!" I hissed, shaking my hand like that’d magically make the sting go away. Of course, it didn’t.

And that’s when I heard it, a soft, amused chuckle behind me.

I froze. Slowly, I turned around, already feeling dread pool in my stomach.

There, leaning lazily against the doorframe, was Adrien, he was shirtless. Again.

His abs caught the light from the morning sun filtering through the window, smugly existing like they knew exactly what they were doing. His hair was damp and messy in that effortlessly perfect way...maybe he’d just had a shower, and that infuriating half-smirk was plastered on his face as he crossed his arms.

"What the hell are you doing?" he drawled, his voice low with morning roughness that sounded way too distracting for this hour.

"I—uh—" I stammered, clutching the spatula like a sword. "We’re out of cooked food, and I was trying to make breakfast."

His eyes flicked to the pan, then back to me, amusement written all over his stupidly handsome face. "Trying being the key word here."

I glared at him, feeling heat rush up my neck. "I–it’s harder than it looks!"

He raised an eyebrow, that smirk widening as he stepped closer. "Is it, though? Because it looks like you’re trying to fight the egg instead of fry it."

My mouth dropped open in disbelief. "Well, excuse me for not being a master chef."

He chuckled again, that deep, rich sound that made my heart skip for reasons I refused to acknowledge. "Clearly. The egg’s winning the fight." 𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶

I turned back to the stove, cheeks burning, muttering under my breath, "So annoying"

"Careful," he said, voice dipping closer now. "You’ll burn the house down at this rate."

I spun around to glare at him again, pointing the spatula at his bare chest. "And what would you know about cooking, huh? Mr. Born With A Silver Spoon? I bet your chef at home doesn’t even let you in the kitchen."

He scoffed, straightening up and pushing away from the wall. "Actually, I do know a thing or two about cooking, unlike you."

I blinked. "You do?"

His smirk deepened. "Move."

I frowned. "What?"

He jerked his chin toward the stove. "Move over before you poison yourself."

I hesitated for a second, torn between pride and the fact that the egg was definitely burning. "But I...fine," I muttered finally, stepping aside.

Adrien brushed past me, close enough that I caught the scent of his cologne—something clean and warm, like cedarwood. He grabbed the spatula from my hand with an ease that felt both rude and graceful, cracking another egg into the pan with practiced motion.

Adrien started cleaning up the absolute crime scene I’d created in the kitchen. I stood awkwardly by the counter, feeling like a scolded kid as he dumped the charred egg into the trash with a disgusted look.

"Jesus, Noah," he muttered under his breath, grabbing a towel to wipe the counter. "How do you even manage to burn something this simple?"

"It’s... a talent," I mumbled defensively, crossing my arms, remembering how I somehow once burned water.

He didn’t reply, just shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might’ve been amusement. Then, without another word, he started pulling out ingredients from the fridge like he owned the place—tomatoes, butter, eggs, some herbs I didn’t even know were in there.

He worked with the kind of focus I’d only ever seen him use on the basketball court. He sliced the tomatoes cleanly, each motion sharp and precise, his movements calm and unhurried. The knife gleamed with every stroke as he diced the pieces perfectly even, like this was something he’d done a hundred times before.

Then he drizzled oil into the pan, waiting for it to heat before tossing the tomatoes in, the soft sizzle filling the kitchen. The smell hit almost immediately, it was savory and warm. He cracked the eggs next, somehow managing to do it one-handed, the yolks landing intact like a magic trick.

I leaned against the counter, pretending to check my phone even though there was no signal. The truth was, I was watching him.

There was something almost hypnotic about it...the way his muscles and biceps shifted under his skin as he moved, the way he furrowed his brow slightly while focusing, the effortless confidence in every motion. Even the way he wiped his hands on a towel after flipping the eggs looked... annoyingly attractive.

God, I hated that.

Why was he actually doing this anyway? Adrien didn’t do helpful. Not for me. Not for anyone.

My gaze lingered on the way he reached for the spatula, and I quickly tore my eyes away, pretending to study the spice rack instead.

Maybe he wasn’t actually trying to be nice. Maybe he was just hungry too. Yeah, that made sense. He was probably only doing this because he needed to eat as well—and because my sad excuse for breakfast had offended his pride or something.

That had to be it.

Right?