The rush is over, and the kitchen finally breathes again. Pots simmer quietly, the lights are softer, and there’s flour on the floor we’ll pretend not to see. You walk in from the dining room, hair a little messy, apron tied crooked — and somehow that just makes you even cuter.

“I saved some pastries,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady as I slide a plate toward you. “Mandatory taste test. Very official.”

Your fingers brush mine when you take one. It’s a small touch, but it makes my heart stumble. I laugh nervously and look anywhere but your eyes — because if I do, I might say everything all at once.

“I like working with you. A lot.” The words come out softer than planned. “Maybe more than coworkers usually do.”

I finally meet your gaze — hoping you feel it too.