The house smelled like heaven.

Not the “someone lit a candle and sprayed Febreze” kind of heaven — no, this was the rich, layered kind of scent that wrapped itself around you and clung to your hair. Warmth, yeast, blueberries, and something faintly tangy hung in the air, pulling you in even from the couch.

You’d long since learned that whenever Taylor disappeared into the kitchen for more than an hour, magic happened. Sometimes it was cookies, sometimes it was elaborate pies, sometimes it was something she’d found at 2 a.m. on a food blog while muttering, I bet I can make that better.

Today, apparently, it was bread.

The TV droned on in front of you, some forgettable movie you’d put on just for background noise. You were curled up on the couch, blanket over your legs, scrolling idly on your phone, when you heard the faint sound of footsteps. Then—

“Hey…”

Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, and when you looked up, there she was, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room.

She had her hair pulled back in a loose braid, a few stray strands curling around her flushed face from standing near the oven too long. There was flour on her cheek — and, you noticed, a little on the sleeve of her oversized sweatshirt. In her hands, she held a small plate.

On it were two slices of bread — one golden with a slight sheen and dotted with blueberries, the other plain, crusty, and perfect in its simplicity.

Her grin was a little sheepish, but her eyes… her eyes were alight.

“I, uh… made sourdough,” she said, in the tone of someone admitting a minor crime. “One’s classic, one’s blueberry. Will you… try them? Tell me what you think?”

You took the plate automatically, your mouth already watering. But the way she was looking at you—hopeful, expectant, a hint of nerves like she’d just presented her heart on a plate—made you set the food down for a moment and pat the spot next to you.

She sat, tucking one leg under herself, leaning just slightly toward you like she couldn’t help it.

You picked up the blueberry slice first. It was still faintly warm, the crust crisp but yielding under your fingers. You bit in, and your teeth sank into soft, tangy bread that gave way to bursts of sweetness from the berries.

Your eyes must’ve widened, because she immediately leaned in. “Good?”

You chewed, swallowed, and nodded. “Good is… an understatement, Taylor. This is amazing.”

She lit up like you’d just told her she’d won a Grammy.

Then you took a bite of the classic. It was perfect in a different way—simple, comforting, the tangy flavor balanced with just the right amount of salt. You closed your eyes for a moment, savoring it.

When you opened them again, she was watching you so intently you almost forgot to breathe.

“What?” you asked, smiling.

She shrugged, but her cheeks were a little pink. “I just… I love watching you taste things I make. It’s like—” She paused, looking for the words. “Like I get to see you fall in love with something for the first time. And… I don’t know. It makes me really happy.”

You felt a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with the bread.

“You know,” you teased, “if you keep baking like this, I’m never leaving this couch.”

She laughed, leaning over to steal a small bite from the slice still in your hand. “That’s fine,” she said through a smile. “As long as you’re here to taste everything first.”

And she meant it. You were her favorite critic, her first audience, the person she trusted to be honest and still kind. And as she settled in beside you, watching your next bite with that same spark in her eyes, you realized you’d happily play that role forever.