Spoken from those being spied upon…by “Agent Orange” aka Benny the Cat.
The Kitchen Chronicles
©ESR 2025

**Content Advisory** Sensual steaminess in the kitchen.

Ready to meet the Kitchen Cast?
Want more Benny? See Feline Files Entry 1, Entry 2 & the #StarbucksMisadventure 6 part series!

(This entry introduces the Storm “Oro” & the Flame character dynamic and resides in the Sacred & Sensual category. This is their Origin Story, it’s a bit saucy.)

Click.
“River” begins its slow pulse, deep as heartbeats and twice as dangerous.

The lights in the kitchen dim, but that’s just coincidence. Or maybe Benny. He’s been known to knock switches.

You’re facing the counter, a hand still on the pepper grinder like it’s a weapon—or a dare. The whiskey glass leaves a faint circle on the butcher block, still sweating from the chill. And then…

He’s behind you.

One hand low, at your waist. The other claims the soft dip just above your hip. Not possessive. Not rushed. Just… certain.

Like he’s done this before in a dream he didn’t tell you about.

“You said you couldn’t dance,” he murmurs at your ear, voice warm enough to fog glass. “You lied.”

You’re about to argue—on principle—but the jeans are sinfully well-fitted and suddenly your knees forget what arguments are for.

The sway starts small. Just a rock. A lean. His thumb draws circles into denim and your breath catches on the downbeat. And then there’s the press—his chest to your back, his hips echoing the rhythm—and now you’re not dancing, you’re being danced with.

“You smell like cinnamon and trouble,” he says, and you laugh.

A soft sound, almost shy.

“I’m barefoot and braless. I smell like ‘I didn’t expect company.’”

“Lucky me,” he whispers.

There’s the spin—gentle, just once—and now you’re facing him.

His expression?

That unreadable damn I didn’t expect this but I’m not letting go look that makes your stomach somersault.

And it’s not just the dancing.

It’s the way his fingers stay tangled with yours when the song ends.

The way his eyes drop to your lips, but don’t move further.

The way his chest rises like he’s about to say something… but doesn’t.

Instead, he lets the moment speak.

And it says:

You’re safe here.
You’re wanted here.
And the jeans?
Yeah, they never stood a chance.

⸻

Benny perches on the counter now. Smug. Watching.

The moment was balanced—perfectly—on the edge of almost.

The whiskey was warming them both now, but not as much as the sway of hips and the quiet hum of the next song. It wasn’t a ballad, and it wasn’t a banger—something in between, groovy, silky, sinuous. Something that invited slow dancing and slow decisions.

She smirked up at him, teasing, “You’ve got a dangerous look on your face.”

“And you,” he murmured, “have no idea what kind of patience it’s taking to not kiss you right now.”

“Oh?” she asked, head tilted. “Who says you have to wait?”

But just as he leaned in—

CRASH.

Something hit the floor.

They both jolted. Benny, mid-pounce, had leapt from the countertop after a shadowy invader—a grape, maybe, or a rogue piece of cilantro. His landing was less than graceful. He skidded across the tile, slid into the fridge door, and flopped dramatically onto his side like a fallen hero.

Silence.

Then she burst out laughing.
The kind of laugh that made her throw her head back and hold her stomach.
The kind of laugh she hadn’t had in months.

And he watched her—really watched her—as her shoulders shook, eyes bright, cheeks flushed from joy and bourbon.

He laughed too. But softer. Almost reverent.
Then he stepped forward and cupped her cheek, the other hand still holding his glass.“God,” he whispered. “That sound. You laughing like that. It’s going to haunt me in the best way.”

She blinked, surprised. “You’re still thinking about kissing me, aren’t you?”

He nodded slowly.

“I was never not thinking about it.”

And in the quiet that followed, where even Benny stilled as if to listen, he bent just enough, and she rose just enough, and somewhere in the center they found the moment—

not loud,
not fiery,
but true.

Not the end of the story.

Not yet.

Just the half-step between laughter and touch.

The next morning came in soft.

Too soft, honestly. Suspiciously soft. That kind of quiet that meant either a cat was plotting, or someone was hungover enough to make toast feel like a threat.

She padded into the kitchen in an oversized shirt and not enough caffeine. Her hair was a rebellion. Her eyes said do not engage in any conversation longer than three words unless it involves bacon.

He, meanwhile, was already at the stove. Somehow chipper. Somehow handsome in that unshaven, smirking, dangerous kind of way. The radio hummed low—some bluesy guitar riff that swayed like hips in moonlight.

She squinted at the frying pan.

“Are those…?”

“Fried eggs,” he nodded. “With sass.”

“You added sass?”

He flipped one dramatically. “Little paprika. Little chili oil. The kind of eggs that make you question your life choices.”

She leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You are alarmingly good at breakfast seduction.”

“Guilty,” he said, then glanced at her over his shoulder. “You don’t remember what you said last night, do you?”

She stiffened. “Define ‘last night.’”

He grinned. “You said—and I quote—‘if I wake up and you made me breakfast, I might consider marrying you.’”

Silence.

Then she grabbed a fork. “Well then, cook carefully. You’re about to find out if these eggs are legally binding.”

They ate on the balcony, barefoot and disheveled, the morning sun painting gold across his collarbone, across her knee. Benny curled under her chair like a little furry spy.

She looked at him once, mid-bite, and thought:

Maybe, just maybe… this is the kind of mess I’d keep.