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The kitchen smelled like rosemary and butter.
Morning had settled soft over the little farmhouse—sunlight filtering through white curtains, the distant sound of sheep braying somewhere down the hill. Birds flitted from the herb garden just outside the open window, where Gordon Freeman stood, squinting at a pot of thyme with an air of tragic concern.
“Why do you look like you're about to write an apology letter to that basil?”
Came a dry voice behind him. Gordon didn’t even turn around.
“Because,”
He said, nudging a limp stalk upright,
“you keep forgetting to water them when I’m gone.”
“I remind you that I am not a domestic lifeform.”
“You live here.”
“I loiter here.”
“You built this house.”
“A detail,”
G-Man replied coolly, appearing behind him like some overly smug shadow. He peered over Gordon’s shoulder, a head taller, hands behind his back like he was evaluating a suspect.
Gordon grumbled and leaned down to inspect the plant closer.
“I think the sage is bouncing back.”
“Are you talking to them again?”
“They’re good listeners.”
“That’s debatable. I heard the rosemary insulted your beard last week.”
Gordon snorted. Then, as if it were second nature, he turned on the heels of his feet, stepped into G-Man’s space, and stood tall—on his tiptoes—to press a soft kiss to the bridge of his nose.
G-Man blinked. Quite literally. He blinked and then stood very, very still.
Gordon, completely unfazed, dropped back to the floor, his bare feet padding softly against the cool tiles as he moved toward the stove. The pan was already hot, a thick cut of steak sizzling as he sprinkled in salt and pressed down a melting slice of cheese with the back of a spatula.
Behind him, G-Man hadn’t moved.
He brought a hand slowly to his face, touching the tip of his nose like it had been struck by some divine force.
He stared at Gordon’s back.
That wasn’t enough.
In two strides he was at Gordon’s side. Without a word—without even a sound—he hooked his arms beneath Gordon’s thighs and lifted him effortlessly off the ground. Gordon let out a startled breath as he was hoisted up and seated firmly on the sun-warmed countertop beside the sink.
“Hey—my pan,”
He started, but he was already smiling. G-Man stood between his legs now, taller still, and the way he looked at Gordon made the air feel heavier. Intent. Gentle. Serious in that strange, tender way he always got when the mask slipped just enough to show the ache underneath.
“You can’t just—”
G-Man started, voice quiet.
“—do that. That nose thing.”
Gordon tilted his head, still grinning.
“You liked it.”
“You should be arrested.”
“I’ll call the plant police.”
G-Man huffed—and then leaned in. He kissed Gordon softly at first. Once on the lips. Then again on the cheek, and then his temple. His mouth found its way down, slow and reverent, to the side of Gordon’s neck. A kiss landed just below his jaw. Then one to his forehead.
Gordon laughed. It started as a giggle—sharp and surprised—and then melted into breathless, delighted little chuckles.
“You’re not gonna let me finish breakfast, huh?”
“No,”
G-Man said simply.
“You started this. I’m finishing it.”
Theiir eyes met, and for a moment the noise of the kitchen faded away. The morning outside disappeared. The world narrowed to that quiet little counter, a man in glasses with callused hands and messy hair, and the taller figure who looked at him like he was some impossible thing.
Gordon’s smile dimmed into something softer, deeper.
“You’re staring.”
“Yes,”
G-Man said, without shame, Gordon leaned forward, slow and sure, pressing his forehead to G-Man’s.
“You love me.”
“I do.”
No tricks. No riddles. Just honesty, stripped bare.
And then, as if the universe was gracious enough to slow time just for them—they kissed. Not rushed. Not desperate.
But like they had all the time in the world.
Because they did.