Free Dinner for One by Meg Harding

James, standing up with three of them clasped in his hands. He sets them on the counter and goes back to the fridge. “Can you get flour and cinnamon?”
    “Crepes?” he asks, shooting an amused glance at James as he goes to fetch the items. “Apple crepes? How French of you.”
    James chuckles, head bent to the task of peeling the apples. His fingers are sure and capable as he slides the knife under the skin. “I expect an American breakfast from you next time. Or Russian if you’re feeling fancy. I’ve got a fondness for Russian cuisine, but can’t seem to ever cook it right when I try.”
    Bastien is glad his back is to James so he can’t see the absolutely giddy look on his face at those words. Next time. James wants there to be a next time. He must not do a good job of clearing the expression because James sends him a knowing look when he hands over the ingredients.
    They work together, moving easily around each other in the kitchen like they’ve done this hundreds of times before. Ingredients are handed over with little prompting, the batter is thoroughly whisked and left to sit, the filling made to perfection.
    Bastien turns on his Spotify as they cook, letting Matt Nathanson fill the silence. Neither of them feels the need to chat while they make breakfast, both of them firmly in the routine, the motion of it. They’re comfortable together, or at least Bastien is, and James appears to be. Occasionally they lightly brush hands or shoulders. Bastien gets momentarily distracted when James shuts a drawer with a swing of his hips.
    Butter sizzles as it melts on the pan, and he hands James the cubed apples, watching as he tilts them into the heated skillet. He gets the cinnamon and sugar ready to go for when the apples are cooked enough, watching as James expertly turns his slim wrist to shake them around and make sure they’re thoroughly softened and browned.
    Once the filling is done, they move on to cooking the batter they’d left to sit. Carefully they pour a little of it into the skillet, waiting for just the right moment to flip it and cook the other side. This is a more delicate process, as they don’t want to damage the crepe. It needs to not be bent or broken.
    They repeat the process three more times.
    He moves the crepes onto a plate and leaves them to cool, handing the apple filling over to James who lets it simmer on low. It needs to be reheated after being set aside during the baking of the crepe batter. Once it’s hot enough, they spoon the apple filling onto the crepes and carefully fold them in, forming perfect quarters.
    His house smells like heaven when the crepes are done, the cinnamon and apple scent permeating every corner. He inhales greedily, moving two onto his plate and two onto James’s. His mouth waters.
    “We can eat on the couch,” he says. “Do you want anything to drink?”
    “Bottled water if you have it.”
    He grabs two waters and follows James to the couch. They sit with their backs to the armrests, their legs entwined in the middle.
    James holds up his bottle like he’s giving a toast and smiles. “Bon appétit,” he says, trying to mimic Bastien’s accent.
    His attempt is horrible, but Bastien laughs, knocking their knees together. He repeats the sentiment, saying it the correct way, and James rolls his eyes.
    “We’re so good,” James says on a moan after the first bite, flicking his pink tongue out to lick up a stray drop of filling that’s clinging to the corner of his mouth. “These are ace.”
    Bastien agrees. They melt on his tongue, the taste just the right amount of strong and savory. “I guess you are decent,” he says, smirking.
    “High praise from the chef, indeed.” James leans forward, reaching out to swipe his thumb over Bastien’s lower lip. He pops it in his mouth, sucking off the filling that must have been there. He sits back like he hasn’t just given Bastien an instant hard-on.
    It’s inevitable that once their plates are empty,