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Rafael Barba stared at the onion on the cutting board. It was a yellow onion. It seemed innocuous enough, but Rafael knew better. It was a biological weapon disguised as a vegetable.
"It’s just an onion, Rafael," Sonny Carisi said, leaning against the granite island of Rafael’s pristine kitchen, suppressing a grin. "It’s not gonna cross-examine you."
"It is emitting volatile sulfur compounds," Rafael countered, holding a Japanese steel knife that cost more than Carisi’s first car. "It is essentially deploying tear gas in my own home. I am preparing a motion to suppress."
"Just chop it," Carisi laughed. "We need it for the base."
Rafael sighed, adjusting his silk apron—which he wore over a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, because he refused to wear t-shirts before 7 PM on a weekday. He attacked the onion.
It was a massacre. Uneven chunks flew across the counter.
"Whoa, whoa," Carisi stepped in, moving behind Rafael. "Easy, Counselor. You’re hacking at it like it’s a hostile witness. You gotta finesse it."
Carisi wrapped his arms around Rafael’s waist, his chest pressing against Rafael’s back. He reached down, covering Rafael’s hands on the knife handle and the onion.
"Like this," Carisi murmured, his breath warm against Rafael’s ear. "Tuck your fingers. Let the blade do the work. It’s a rocking motion, see?"
He guided Rafael’s hand. The knife moved smoothly now, slicing through the layers with rhythmic precision. The scent of onion was strong, but the scent of Carisi—sandalwood, basil, and warm skin—was stronger.
"You have excellent dexterity," Rafael noted, his voice dropping an octave.
"I’m Italian," Carisi quipped, kissing Rafael’s temple. "We’re born with a paring knife in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other."
"And the hair gel?"
"That comes at confirmation."
Rafael chuckled, leaning back into Carisi’s embrace. "I still don't understand why we are doing this. New York has the finest restaurants in the world. I have Seamless. I have a personal shopper."
"Because," Carisi said, letting go of the knife to turn Rafael around. "Sunday gravy isn't about the food. It’s about the ritual. It’s about taking four hours to make something for the people you love. It’s... domestic."
Rafael looked at him. Sonny Carisi, with flour on his jeans and a smudge of tomato paste on his chin, looked ridiculous and breathtakingly handsome.
"Domestic," Rafael repeated, testing the word. It felt foreign in his mouth, like 'acquittal' used to feel in the early days.
"Yeah. Domestic." Carisi wiped a tear from Rafael’s cheek with his thumb. "The onions getting to you?"
"Yes," Rafael lied. "The sulfur."
"Right."
Carisi turned back to the stove, where a massive pot was already simmering with pork neck bones and sausage. "Okay, onions go in. Then the garlic. Then we let it sweat."
For the next hour, Rafael Barba was an intern in his own kitchen. He was tasked with stirring, tasting, and handing Carisi spices. He watched as Carisi transformed raw ingredients into something that smelled like heaven.
It was infuriatingly attractive. The way Carisi moved around the kitchen—efficient, confident, humming along to Frank Sinatra playing on the Sonos—was a revelation. In the courtroom, Carisi could still be tentative, looking for approval. Here, he was the master of his domain.
"Taste," Carisi ordered, holding out a wooden spoon covered in thick, dark red sauce.
Rafael leaned forward. He opened his mouth, and Carisi fed him.
The flavor exploded on his tongue—rich, savory, acidic, and sweet.
"Well?" Carisi asked, eyes sparkling.
"It lacks..." Rafael paused for dramatic effect. "Absolutely nothing. It’s perfect."
Carisi beamed. "See? I told you."
He went to pull the spoon away, but Rafael caught his wrist. He licked the remaining sauce from the spoon, maintaining eye contact. He saw Carisi’s pupils dilate.
"You missed a spot," Rafael whispered.
"Where?"
"Here."
Rafael reached out, dipping his thumb into the pot of sauce. It was hot, but bearable. He smeared a streak of red sauce across Carisi’s lower lip.
"Now you look dangerous," Rafael murmured.
"You’re playing with fire, Barba," Carisi warned, his voice rough.
"I’m playing with the chef."
Rafael leaned in and licked the sauce off Carisi’s lip.
It was the catalyst. Carisi dropped the spoon (it clattered onto the counter, splashing red droplets onto the white marble) and grabbed Rafael by the waist, hoisting him up onto the island.
"The sauce," Carisi gasped, breaking the kiss. "It’s gonna burn."
"Turn the burner down," Rafael commanded, his legs wrapping around Carisi’s waist.
Carisi reached blindly behind him, twisting the knob to low. Then he was back, his hands buried in Rafael’s hair, devouring him.
"You talk so much trash about cooking," Carisi growled, biting Rafael’s jaw. "But you taste pretty good."
"I have a refined palate," Rafael panted, his hands working quickly to undo the buttons of Carisi’s flannel shirt. "And right now, I’m craving protein."
Carisi laughed, a low rumble in his chest. He pushed Rafael’s legs wider, stepping between them. He ground his hips against Rafael’s, the friction of denim against dress trousers sending a jolt of electricity through both of them.
"Bedroom?" Carisi asked.
"Too far," Rafael decided. "The counter is cold. You’re hot. Thermodynamics suggests we stay here."
"Thermodynamics," Carisi shook his head. "You really can't turn it off, can you?"
"Make me."
Carisi accepted the challenge. He yanked Rafael’s apron off, tossing it onto the floor. He unbuckled Rafael’s belt.
"You’re gonna get flour on your suit," Carisi warned.
"I’ll bill you."
Carisi pulled Rafael’s pants down. Rafael kicked them off, along with his shoes. He sat on the expensive marble in his dress shirt and boxer briefs, feeling decadent.
Carisi shed his own clothes with less grace but more enthusiasm. When he was finally skin to skin with Rafael, he let out a long sigh of relief.
"You’re beautiful," Carisi whispered, running his hands down Rafael’s sides. "Even covered in onion fumes."
"Shut up and kiss me, Sonny."
They kissed. It was slow and deep, tasting of basil and desire. Rafael felt a surge of affection so strong it almost knocked the wind out of him. This man—this kind, stubborn, brilliant man—was in his kitchen, making him dinner, and making him feel whole.
"I want you," Rafael said against Carisi’s mouth. "Now."
"Condoms are in the bedroom," Carisi panted.
"Top drawer. Left side. I moved a box to the spice rack. For emergencies."
Carisi pulled back, looking incredulous. "You keep condoms in the spice rack?"
"It seemed thematically appropriate. Next to the paprika. Spicy."
Carisi laughed so hard he nearly collapsed. He retrieved the box from the cabinet. "You are insane."
"I am efficient."
Carisi handed him the packet. Rafael tore it open. He looked at Carisi.
"Turn around," Rafael said.
"What?" Carisi blinked. "On the counter?"
"Lean over," Rafael ordered, sliding off the counter to stand. "I want to see you enjoy my kitchen."
Carisi turned, bracing his hands on the marble island, looking over his shoulder with a mix of amusement and heat. "You’re bossy when you’re hungry."
"I’m always bossy."
Rafael moved behind him. He pressed his chest against Carisi’s back. He reached around, his hand sliding down Carisi’s stomach, lower.
"Relax," Rafael murmured, biting the curve of Carisi’s shoulder.
He prepped him slowly. Carisi groaned, his head dropping low between his arms.
"Barba," Carisi whined. "The sauce is smelling really good. It’s making me hungry."
"I’m the main course," Rafael corrected. "The sauce is just a side dish."
He thrust in.
Carisi cried out, his fingers gripping the edge of the counter. "Jesus, Rafael."
"Good?"
"Yeah. Yeah, good."
Rafael established a rhythm. It was domestic sex at its finest—comfortable, deep, and intimate. The smell of the simmering sauce filled the air, mixing with the scent of sex. The Frank Sinatra playlist had moved on to "The Way You Look Tonight."
It was a cliché. It was perfect.
"You realize," Rafael said, thrusting deep, "that I am never going to actually learn to cook."
"I know," Carisi gasped, pushing back against him. "You’re hopeless."
"But I am excellent at supervision."
"You call this supervision?"
"I call this... employee retention."
Rafael gripped Carisi’s hips, driving into him with more force. Carisi moaned, loud and uninhibited.
"Rafael," Carisi begged. "Don't stop. Just... right there."
"I’m not stopping."
They moved together in the warm kitchen, the city outside forgotten. Rafael felt the tension of the week melting away. He felt the armor he wore so tightly loosening, one thrust at a time.
"Sonny," Rafael whispered, leaning down to kiss the nape of Carisi’s neck. "I love you."
Carisi froze for a split second, then melted. "Love you too. So much."
The confession heightened everything. The pleasure became sharper, brighter. Rafael reached around, stroking Carisi, bringing them both to the edge.
"Together," Rafael ordered.
"Yeah," Carisi choked out. "Together."
They came in a rush of heat and noise, Carisi shouting Rafael’s name into the empty kitchen, Rafael groaning against Carisi’s skin.
They stayed there, leaning against the counter, breathing heavily. The sauce bubbled gently on the stove.
Rafael pulled out slowly. He pressed a kiss to Carisi’s sweaty back.
"Okay," Rafael said, straightening up. "Lesson over."
Carisi turned around, leaning back against the island. He looked disheveled and incredibly happy.
"Did I pass?" Carisi asked.
"You get an A plus," Rafael decided. "For extra credit."
Carisi grinned. He reached for a towel to clean up. "Go sit down. I’ll finish the pasta. Unless you want to try to boil water without burning the apartment down?"
"I think I’ll stick to wine duty," Rafael said, retrieving a bottle of Chianti. "I know my strengths."
"Smart man."
Ten minutes later, they were sitting at the counter (clothed), eating rigatoni with Sunday gravy.
Rafael took a bite. He closed his eyes.
"Okay," Rafael admitted. "It was worth the onion massacre."
Carisi smiled, clinking his glass against Rafael’s. "Welcome home, Rafael."
Rafael looked at him over the rim of his glass. "It’s good to be home."