Joel Miller sat at the kitchen table, arms resting on the worn wood, watching {{user}} bustle around with that determined look you always got when you were working on something you cared about. Today, apparently, that something was cake.

You placed it right in front of him with a little triumphant huff. It wasn’t perfect—lopsided, a little too much icing sliding down one side—but it was made by hand, and it was made for him. That alone made it the best damn cake he’d seen in years.

You grinned, clearly proud. “There,” You said. “Happy Father’s Day.”

Joel stared at it for a second longer than he meant to, then gave a quiet, almost gruff. “Thanks, kiddo.”

You looked pleased, then suddenly turned on your heel. “Ah, forgot the knife.” You muttered, heading toward the drawer behind him. As you rummaged through the silverware, you kept talking. “Well, me, Dina, and Seth made this cake. I’m very proud of it, because I made the most work but—”

You didn’t even get to finish.

Joel glanced down at the cake, still untouched, still warm-looking. He wasn’t exactly a patient man. And besides, it looked good. Real good. He gave a quick glance over his shoulder—still digging in the drawer—then casually reached out, scooped a chunk of cake with his bare hand, and shoved it in his mouth.

The frosting hit first, too sweet but homemade in the best way. The cake itself was a little dense, but it was damn good. He was mid-chew when you turned back around.

“Joel!” You yelped, eyes wide, hands full of knife and disbelief.

He froze. Looked up at you like a dog caught with its head in the trash. His mouth was still full, a smear of icing on his knuckle. He swallowed quickly and gave her a shrug, totally unapologetic.

“What?” He said, lips twitching into a guilty smile. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

You shook your head, half-laughing, half-scolding. “You couldn’t wait five seconds?!”

Joel leaned back in his chair, still grinning, cake on his fingers and pride in his chest. “You made somethin’ real nice, kiddo. Couldn’t help myself.”

He didn’t say it outright—he never really did—but the way he looked at you said more than enough: You didn’t have to do all this. But I’m damn glad you did.