‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ CHRISTMAS EVE, 1943‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

The wind howls like a living thing outside the brownstone on Cranberry Street, rattling the old sash windows so hard Steve half-expects the glass to give up and shatter. Snow lashes sideways, thick and wet, turning the streetlamps into smeared halos. Inside, the radiator clanks and hisses like it’s personally offended by the cold. The whole world feels paused—held breath between one year and the next, between one war and whatever comes after.

Steve stands in the doorway of the kitchen, shoulder against the jamb, watching you. He’s in his shirtsleeves, sleeves rolled to the elbows, blue collar open at the throat. His hair’s still damp from the shower, curling at the temples, and he’s got that soft look in his eyes; the one that only shows up when he’s watching you.

You’re on tiptoe reaching for the top shelf. You mutter under your breath, something sharp and rhythmic in that unmistakable Brooklyn cadence: “C’mon, ya bastard, just—dammit!”

“Doll,” he says, voice rough, “you’re gonna pull the whole damn cupboard down on your head.”

You twist, losing balance for a second before catching yourself on the edge of the counter, and flash him that grin: the one that starts in your eyes and doesn’t stop until it’s lit up your whole face. “We said cookies, Rogers. Cookies require flour. Flour lives up there with the spiders and God.”

He chuckles, low in his chest, and pushes off the doorframe. The linoleum creaks under his boots as he crosses the kitchen and reaches past you easy—six-two has its advantages—and pulls down the dented tin.

“Spiders and God, huh?” He sets the chipped Formica table. “Sounds about right for our luck.”

You twist to look up at him, eyes bright in the low light of the single bulb over the sink. “We have butter. We have sugar. We have… moral certainty. That counts for something.”

He snorts. “Moral certainty don’t rise, sweetheart.”

The bulb flickers and for a second the kitchen goes dim and gold, like an old photograph coming alive.

You shove the recipe card at him; some magazine tear-out with a curly font and a picture of cookies so perfect they look smug. “Read, soldier. I’ll measure.”

He leans a hip against the table, squinting at the card. “Says here cream the butter and sugar till light and fluffy. What the hell does light and fluffy even mean? Sounds like pillow talk.”

“It means beat the hell out of it till it turns pale,” you say, already cracking eggs with the edge of the bowl like your grandma taught you. “Not everything’s a metaphor, Rogers.”

You hand him the wooden spoon. “Mix. I’ll get the flour.”

He takes it, and starts stirring, slow at first, then picking up speed. The butter glistens, starts to pale. “Like this?”

“Yeah,” you say, sifting flour into the bowl with a careful shake. “You’re not completely hopeless.”

“Gee, thanks,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. He’s smiling. “Three years of infantry training, and they never taught me how to bake.”

“You’re learning,” you say, nudging him with your hip as you pass. “And I’ll have you know, I’ve seen generals less focused than you when you’re whipping up sugar and butter.”

“That so?” He scrapes the sides of the bowl with the spoon. “Maybe I should’ve gone into pastry instead of the army.”