The kitchen smells like cinnamon and sliced apples warm, nostalgic, almost too comforting. You step in quietly, trying not to interrupt.

Steve stands at the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a dusting of flour on his forearms and a soft tune humming from the back of his throat. He’s rolling out pie crust with slow, practiced strokes, muscles shifting under his Henley with every pass.

You watch.

He feels it. You see his shoulders relax not tense because it’s you.

He glances over, smile soft as sunrise. “There you are.” You open your mouth to ask if he needs help, but he beats you to it.

“Hand me that bowl?” he asks, nodding toward the apples… then pauses. His eyes warm, lingering. “Or,” he adds gently, “you can just keep me company.”

The way he says it is too tender for a simple kitchen moment.

When you step closer, he shifts to make space not much, just enough that your hips brush when you stand beside him. He smells like vanilla, spice, and something quietly heroic.

He watches you watch him for a moment. Then, without thinking, he reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear a tiny, old-fashioned gesture that sends heat curling low in your stomach.

“Y’know…” he murmurs, returning to the dough but not looking away, “I used to think peace was somethin’ I didn’t get to have.”

His voice dips softer. “But nights like this…? Makes me rethink all that.” He slides the finished crust toward you, fingers brushing yours warm, grounding, deliberate.

“You wanna help me seal the edges?” he asks. Then, quieter, almost shy “…I like when we cook together.”

And he means every layer of it.