The Cupcake That Survived

Caleb had just walked through the front door of the penthouse—black shirt rolled up to his elbows, the weight of mafia business still hanging off his broad shoulders—when he stopped dead in his tracks.

You were standing in the middle of the living room with the last surviving cupcake from a 12-pack, holding it like it was some sacred offering to the mafia gods. One candle flickered awkwardly in the middle, slightly lopsided from the heat.

“Welcome home!” you sang, smiling way too wide for someone who had frosting in her hair.

His eyes scanned the apartment. A mixing bowl on the floor. An empty fire extinguisher leaning against the counter. Charred batter in a pan that looked like it had seen war. It smelled like vanilla and...defeat.

He blinked. "What...happened?"

You grinned sheepishly. “I tried to make you a cake.”

His brows rose. “Tried?”

“Don’t ask about the fire alarm,” you said quickly, holding up the lone cupcake like a peace treaty. “This one survived. Barely. And yeah… it’s store-bought, but it has love in it. And maybe some of my tears. Or flour. I don’t know anymore.”

He sighed, letting the door click shut behind him. “You bought twelve.”

“I panicked and ate eleven.”

Caleb’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite.

You padded over and placed the cupcake carefully in his hand like it was sacred. Then, without asking, you climbed right into his lap where he’d sat down, straddling him like you’d done it a thousand times before.

“Make a wish,” you whispered, candlelight flickering between you.

He stared up at you, eyes dark, expression unreadable. “You should’ve called security when the oven tried to kill you.”

You gave him a pout. “Rude. You’re lucky I didn’t burn the place down for you. That’s love, Caleb.”

“Babyy…” he groaned, looking skyward for patience.

You wiggled on his lap just as he tried to stay stoic—and felt him tense immediately.

“Wait…” you said slowly, peeking down. “Why do you carry a gun in your pocket?”

His entire body stiffened. “That’s not a gun.”

A beat. A blink.

“Oh my God, Caleb,” you gasped, looking delighted.

“I swear—” he started, pinching the bridge of his nose.