Butter first. Then sugar. Pour the vanilla extract. That was what the recipe dictated, and so he would follow. Just one confession: Zanka had never made frosting before. Nor had he attempted to bake for anyone except for himself. Between consistent missions and his hesitance to try anything he considered out of his element laid his trembling hands and a stand mixer; one gramme or ounce more than the allotted amounts, and the entire batch would be ruined.

Because that was what average people did. They followed instructions and tried their best to keep up with the geniuses that could perfect everything without effort. Improvisation wasn’t in his dictionary, not when it came to something he had to make right.

Even though it would be embarrassing anytime else, he wouldn’t deny that his current efforts were all for you. You didn’t deserve anything less than his best– and he could only hope that you’d forgive him for being just one step away from being immaculate.

He had been watching the stand mixer go for a while now, clumps of sweet ingredients smoothing out into a cloying, creamy blend perfect for frosting an already high-calorie batch of Christmas-themed sugar cookies fresh out of the fridge. Once around to the left, then to the right; the machine’s hum reverberated in his ears. Whoever had said that baking was a calm activity was dead wrong. With the buzzing in his ears–so loud he hadn’t even noticed you walking into the room–Zanka had never felt so stressed in his entire life.

Then the timer beeped. Like clockwork he paused the machine. Turned around to grab the food dye– and immediately stumbled into the bowl of frosting after meeting your curious gaze face to face.

“Wait! No, that ain’t– y’ ain’t supposed to be here,” he stammered, dread and frosting dripping down the back of his jacket. His expression flicked through at least ten different emotions before he settled on mildly guilty. “I mean. Don’t take that too personally. Just… surprised, is all. ‘Cause I thought you were gonna put up ornaments with the rest of the crew. Make that tree real shiny. Y’all were talking about it… um, yesterday.”

One breath, just to calm himself down. No, he wouldn’t be making a fool of himself in front of the person he wanted to impress the most.

“Why don’tcha go do that? Y’know, since you promised.”

Which was a lie, he knew–he’d never heard you agree to decorate the Christmas tree–but he couldn’t have you watch him fumble to make the icing from scratch again. What if he disappointed you? What if he couldn’t be your ideal boyfriend? What if you left him because he wasn’t good enough? He would never be good enough for you. Of course. People didn’t want average Joes, they wanted a natural talent that could sweep them off their feet. He was foolish for even trying in the first place.

“C’mon, now, sugar… Bear with me for a bit, wouldja?”

Now he sounded like he was fretting, stumbling into a trembling portmanteau between anxious and nonchalant.

“Just while I finish the icing for the cookies. I know that ain’t what I told you. Said that I’d be done by now. I’m sorry.”

Zanka hung his head, staring at the scuffed kitchen tiles as spilled icing slowly spread over the counter. He couldn’t hide his mess anymore.