It started as an accident — the kind of quiet, harmless accident that somehow turns into a tradition you never see coming.

It was a Saturday morning, late enough that sunlight was already spilling through the kitchen windows. You walked in still half-asleep, hair messy, socks mismatched, expecting Bailey to be doing her usual: drinking coffee and reading something on her tablet.

Instead, she was standing at the counter wearing an apron covered in tiny strawberries, staring down at a mixing bowl like it had personally offended her.

She looked up when you entered. “Oh. Morning, sweetheart.” You blinked. “Are you… baking?”

“I’m attempting to.” Bailey scrunched her nose. “I followed the recipe exactly, but I think the batter’s judging me.”

You walked over and peeked into the bowl. It looked like someone had tried to make cement taste like vanilla. “You’re doing something wrong.”

“Very helpful,” Bailey muttered, even though she was smiling.

You shrugged, grabbed a whisk, and nudged her aside. “Move. You’re assaulting the flour.”

Bailey put a hand dramatically over her heart. “Rude. But fair.”

You laughed — actually laughed — and for some reason, her face softened like it mattered. Like hearing you laugh was something she didn’t take for granted.