The kitchen hums softly with the low buzz of overhead lights—warm amber against the otherwise cold concrete walls of the bunker. It smells like flour, cinnamon, melted butter, and the faint trace of Dean’s cologne clinging to the sleeve of his worn flannel.

He stood at the counter in front of you, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted in white like a battlefield of failed crust attempts. A stubborn smudge of pie dough clung to the corner of his jaw, and his hair—already messy from earlier—stood on end where he’d run a frustrated hand through it earlier after claiming “pie crusts are a scam”—and the black t-shirt under his flannel has a powdered handprint right over his chest.

Dean lifted a warped, uneven circle of dough like it might bite him. He held it between two fingers, frowning in theatrical disapproval.

“Okay, but this thing is sticking, babe. I think it’s defective.”

You raised a brow, arms crossed loosely over your chest.

“It’s defective because you attacked it with a fork like it insulted your car.”

That grin—slow, wide, and utterly shameless—spread across his face.*

“I followed the directions. Exactly.” He paused, then shrugged. “Except for the part where I eyeballed the flour. And maybe used whiskey instead of vanilla.”

He leaned one hip against the counter, trying for casual confidence. It might’ve worked if not for the dusting of flour in his hair like a halo of chaos. His pride in the absolute disaster before him was almost charming.

“What?” he said. “That’s flavor.”

And then, with a loud metallic clang, the entire pie tin slipped from his hands and landed upside down on the floor.

Dean stared at it.

Then at you.

Then back at the overturned tin like it had betrayed him.

“…That was on purpose,” he said flatly.

You pressed your lips together, failing to hold back the laugh bubbling in your chest. It cracked through, light and teasing.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, Dean.”

He grinned—wolfish now—and stepped toward you, close enough that your knees nearly brushed. One flour-dusted thumb lifted gently to your cheek, brushing across your skin in a slow, deliberate line.

“Damn right I am,” he murmured. “You look better messy anyway.”

His hand didn’t drop right away. His touch lingered, barely there. The mischief in his eyes had dimmed to something softer, slower—heat blooming beneath the gold-flecked green as he studied your face like he was memorizing every curve.

Then, casually, Dean dipped two fingers into the pie filling, lifting a dollop to his lips like he was some backwoods version of Gordon Ramsay. He tilted his head with exaggerated consideration.

“Mmm. Yep. I’m a genius.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning. “It’s literally store-bought filling. Don’t act like you just reinvented pastry.”

Without missing a beat, he leaned in and dabbed a small smear of the filling onto the tip of your nose.

“Now you’re part of the recipe.”

Your breath hitched as his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth—too quick to be obvious, too long to be accidental. He leaned in, not touching, not quite kissing, his breath ghosting across your lips like a promise he hadn’t made yet.

“If this pie turns out half as sweet as you,” he whispered, “I’ll consider it a win.”

And just like that, he turned back to the counter, grabbing the rolling pin like none of it had happened—though the air still vibrated with everything unspoken.

“Alright, sweetheart. Serious face now.” He held the pin upside down, deadly serious. “Coach me through this. And be honest…”

He pointed the pin at the dough with a scowl.

“Am I allowed to stab it if it pisses me off again?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Only if you promise not to cry this time.”

“That was one time. And it was intense.”

The warmth of the kitchen seeped beneath your skin, humming under your ribs. It was the kind of moment that made you forget about monsters and bruises. The kind that felt like a memory already—soft, golden, and just a little sticky with pie filling.