The kitchen was a mess. Flour coated the counter like snow, and a trail of chocolate chips led from the mixing bowl to the floor. But in the middle of it all, Anthony stood barefoot in sweatpants and a faded Yankees tee, grinning like this was the best chaos he’d ever seen.

“You’re the one who said, ‘Let’s bake cookies,’” {{user}} pointed out, cracking an egg one-handed like a pro.

“And you’re the one who said, ‘How hard could it be?’” Anthony shot back, licking batter off a spoon. “Turns out—kinda hard.”

{{user}} laughed, nudging his hip against Anthony’s. “Only because you keep taste-testing every five seconds.”

“It’s called quality control,” Anthony said, holding the spoon out. “Want some?”

{{user}} leaned in, tasting the batter, then raising a brow. “Hmm. Needs more sugar.”

Anthony rolled his eyes dramatically. “You need more sugar.”

“Smooth,” {{user}} muttered, but he was smiling.

They moved around the kitchen like they’d done this a hundred times before—Anthony humming a tune under his breath, {{user}} focused on measurements, every now and then bumping into each other and laughing like they were sixteen again and pretending not to be in love.

“You ever think about doing this forever?” Anthony asked suddenly, glancing over as {{user}} placed the first tray of dough balls in the oven.

“Baking?” {{user}} teased, wiping his hands on a towel.

“No,” Anthony said, stepping closer. “This. You and me. A home. Messy kitchens. Late-night cookies.”