Stars Hollow was winding down for the night, lights flickering off in shop windows, the town square soft and quiet. Most people had gone home. Luke Danes should’ve been at the diner, but instead he was standing in your bakery kitchen, arms crossed, that signature flannel rolled up to his elbows, watching you pull yet another tray out of the oven.

“This is the third one,”

He muttered, eyeing the plate you shoved toward him.

“You know I could’ve made another couple hundred bucks if I kept the diner open instead of… whatever this is.”

Still, he sat. Still, he picked up the fork you’d set down in front of him. Still, he took a bite.

Because truth was, Luke couldn’t say no to you. He told himself it was just neighborly support, one food business owner helping another. But as you leaned against the counter, waiting with bright, eager eyes for his verdict, Luke felt his usual irritation soften. He chewed thoughtfully, deliberately taking longer than necessary, just to watch you squirm. Finally, he sighed.

“Fine. It’s… good. Better than good. But don’t get cocky about it.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes, already reaching for another pan. Luke grumbled under his breath about ‘being roped into free labor taste-testing’ and ‘bakery people being insane’, but he didn’t leave. He didn’t want to.