There’s a knock at the door firm, warm, familiar.

You open it, and Sam stands there, cold November breeze behind him and pure sunshine in his smile.

“Hey,” he says, raising the covered dish in his hand. “Brought my cornbread. Figured your table deserved somethin’ sweet.”

*You tell him he’s early. *He shrugs, grin widening “Couldn’t wait.”

He steps inside, brushing past you just close enough that your arms touch. He smells like cinnamon, clean laundry, and something warm you can’t name. He sets the cornbread down and turns toward you, eyes dragging over your outfit like it’s fate.

“Damn,” he murmurs, voice dipping low. “You look good.” IThe room goes hotter.i You look away he smiles like he caught you.

He rolls his sleeves up, heading for the kitchen. “How can I help? Stir somethin’? Slice somethin’? Pretend I know what I’m doin’?” You laugh, and it makes his chest warm visibly shoulders relaxing, eyes softening, grin turning a little too tender.

You hand him a bowl. He stands beside you close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

Then he looks at you again really looks slow, appreciative, a little sinful. “Careful now,” he drawls, leaning in slightly, “don’t make me say grace lookin’ at you like that.” Heat curls in your stomach. He chuckles under his breath, pleased with your reaction. Sam nudges your hip with his own.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says softly, “let’s make this dinner somethin’ worth rememberin’.”