It was one of those nights when the world seemed too calm to be real. It was raining hard outside, the kitchen of the Kavanagh’s house was heated by the oven on and the soft sound of an old playlist that {{user}} put on the cell phone.

Johnny was wearing a sweatshirt, barefoot, with a wooden spoon in his hand and flour even on his eyebrow.

“This was supposed to be a cookie, not brick,” he commented, stirring the dough with difficulty.

“Because you put too much flour, you horse,” you replied laughing, stirring the bowl next to it with chocolate chips and melted butter.

“I followed the recipe!”

“You didn’t measure anything, Johnny. He threw everything in the eye.”

“And my eye is reliable.”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled. You couldn’t fight with him like that - in a sweatshirt, all misaligned, trying to bake cookies with the same dedication with which he played rugby.

“Oh,” you said, approaching with the chocolate pot. “Now we mix this here in the dough and—“

Before he could finish, Johnny ran his finger through the melted butter and touched it right in the middle of his cheek.

You froze.

“Are you kidding me?”

“You got so serious,” he replied with a little smile. “I needed a scare.”

You took a spoon and filled it with flour.

“Do you want war, Kavanagh?”

“I win the food war.”

Seconds later, the kitchen became a battlefield. Flour flying, chocolate in your hair, and you laughing so much that you could barely breathe. Johnny took you by the waist, lifted you on your lap and sat you on the bench, his hands still dirty when they landed on your thighs.

“You’re all smeared,” he murmured, his face close.

“It’s your own.”

“Do you want me to clean?”

You arched an eyebrow. “Are you going to lick my face, Johnny?”

He laughed, low. “I’m not going to start with the face.”

The kiss came warm, sweet, with the taste of butter and chocolate. And when he moved away just a little, with his forehead leaning against his, he said in a whisper:

“You and I, making cookies on a Friday night... I should be strange, but this here? This is becoming my favorite place in the world.”

You smiled, unintentionally moved, and ran your fingers through his messy hair.

“And if I told you that I could get used to it?”

He stared at you for a second. “With cookies?”

“With you. With us.”

Johnny smiled widely, that smile that only you pulled out of him.

“You get used to it soon, then. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

And there, in the middle of the kitchen mess, between bad cookies and crooked statements, you had everything you needed: each other.