Vanilla

Thirty Two

A/N: it's been long since I wrote an entire chapter of inappropriate content but H E R E you G O. Oh! And I only just miraculously pulled off this chapter despite my schedule and I'm not too sure if I can make it for next week's update but I'll be announcing on my Instagram when exactly I will be updating if not for the usual time :> it's also where I do my votes on specials and stuff so if you want to be a part of that... head over to @hisangelchip hehe.

Enjoy the i n a p p r o p r i a t e content I have for you. Warning, it is inappropriate. I said it three times.

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[Vanilla]

"No use pinning this on me, Leroy. An apron is a luxury. Plus, you're the school's number three! You... you don't spill, t-this is... this is not, clearly, legal l I think you'd have to be arrested for..." I trailed off, stunned and quite incapable of speech. Halfway through, I'd made the mistake of being exasperated enough to chance a look at him but good god, was that not the best of ideas.

It promptly reminded me of the mysteriously rigorous workout regime that culinary students were made to do in separate instances of gym class whilst exempting nutritionists and critics alike. After all, one couldn't possibly be built like an athlete what with food being central to their very living and being unless they were unfairly blessed with the gift of superior metabolism. Leroy was one such fortunate soul.

A pity he'd somehow traded in a good deal of his intelligence for, well, a set of fine physical traits; the idiot did not seem to have the slightest idea of the consequences wet hair could bring. Parts of his bare skin remained concerningly damp, including droplets of water dangling off the tips of his hair and some, clinging to his back.

"Please tell me you're wearing something under that towel," I said to him, slightly relieved to be observing his back instead of the um, the rather distracting front view. Well, technically speaking both were equally high up in their disruptive qualities but I suppose we'd all have to pick our poison at some point in our lives, so. Either way, he appeared to be searching for something. "Is everything alright?"

"Underwear," he laid out, unzipping his rucksack and reaching in before moving on to the grocery bags by the couch. "Can't remember where I put them."

"You mean the box you only just purchased from the department store?" I nearly sighed, pointing him in the direction of the dining table. "They were with the carrots and potatoes in that bag over there. You put them there yourself just this afternoon, Leroy. I can't believe the state of your memory!"

"Just trying to see if I could get away with losing them and not wearing all that to sleep," he had the gall to dodge my words entirely and fire a teasing flame in return. It was practically a crime.

"I'm sorry Leroy but underwear isn't 'all that' when it's the only thing you're attempting to put on at the moment. Let me see the shirt." I knocked on the bathroom door he'd closed for privacy and a hand, along with a bunched-up mess that was his brand-new 'Impress Me' shirt, presented itself through a gap in the door. My companion emerged as soon as I'd accepted it—this time, without a towel but thankfully (or, perhaps on second thoughts, not so thankful after all) clad in a pair of boxers.