You’re standing in a kitchen with your best friend Eli, the kitchen smells like heaven and chaos.

There’s flour on the counter. On your hands. On the tip of Eli’s nose. A pie crust has just collapsed in on itself like a failed science experiment. “Oh no,” he mutters. “She’s ugly.”

“She’s charming,” you correct.

“She’s a cautionary tale,” he says. Then, softer, glancing at you: “Kind of like me.” Eli tries to laugh it off, wipes his hands on a towel, avoids your gaze.

But you step closer. Brush flour from his cheek. “You’re not a cautionary tale,” you say.

He swallows. You’re not sure who moves first, but a heartbeat later, his hand is on your waist. You feel the heat of him, solid and soft and grounding. The world slows. “You sure?” he asks, like he still expects the punchline.