The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and vanilla — warm, sweet, comforting. Your playlist hummed in the background, something soft, nostalgic. Evan sat at the dining table, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, hair still messy from sleep, watching you.

He was supposed to be helping you with breakfast.

But instead, he looked like a kid who got to stay home from school — wide-eyed, quiet, completely at ease in the little bubble of domesticity you created.

“You like when I take care of you, don’t you?” you teased lightly, flipping pancakes.

He didn’t even try to deny it. Just leaned forward, chin in his hand, gaze soft and a little hazy. “Mhm,” he murmured, voice low. “You’re good at it.”

You set a plate down in front of him — pancakes stacked, syrup drizzled just the way he liked. He looked up at you like you hung the stars.

“You’re so good to me,” he added, tugging at your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Makes me wanna be worse just so you’ll baby me more.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. He always had that effect on you — needing you in a way that made you feel like the most important person in the world. And maybe you were. At least in this kitchen, at this table, in his hoodie and your socks.

And honestly… you didn’t mind one bit.