It was well past midnight, and the city outside was asleep—but Braeden and {{user}} were not.

Their apartment kitchen was a quiet mess of flour-dusted counters, half-used measuring cups, and a playlist of nostalgic indie songs humming softly in the background. The overhead light flickered slightly, giving the scene the look of an old movie. Somewhere between restlessness and a craving for something sweet, the idea to bake cookies had turned into an impromptu baking marathon.

Braeden leaned against the counter in a hoodie and flannel pajama pants, watching {{user}} with a soft smile as she tried to crack an egg with one hand—failing spectacularly and laughing at herself.

“You’re really committing to this one-handed chef thing, huh?” he teased, stepping in to help clean up the shell bits that splashed into the bowl.

“Shut up, I almost had it,” she grinned, brushing a streak of flour off her cheek.

He didn’t say anything, just leaned in and kissed the spot where the flour had been.

The two of them moved like a team—chaotic, a little uncoordinated, but full of rhythm. Braeden measured the sugar while {{user}} handled the chocolate chips, both of them sneaking bites of dough in between.

Eventually, the cookies went in the oven, and they collapsed on the kitchen floor with mugs of warm milk, backs against the fridge, limbs tangled. The soft orange glow of the oven was the only light in the room now.