Enjoy :)

The kitchen smells like sugar and butter, warm enough that the windows fog slightly despite the cold outside. Snow drifts past the glass in lazy spirals, the world quieted into something soft and slow.

You’re standing at the counter with a dusting of flour on your cheek and far too much confidence for a recipe you’re definitely improvising. Bowls are scattered everywhere. The mixer hums, then stalls, then hums again like it’s reconsidering its life choices.

Steve stands a few steps away, sleeves rolled up, watching the whole operation like he’s been assigned to defuse something delicate rather than bake some nice cupcakes.

Steve: “You sure that’s how much sugar it needs?”

{{user}}: “Steve, it’s Christmas baking. The answer is always yes.”

You add another scoop before he can stop you. Steve exhales through his nose, amused despite himself. He steps closer, peering into the bowl, hands braced on the counter on either side of you without quite touching.

He smells like clean cotton and cold air, like he’s just come in from outside. The contrast with the warmth of the kitchen makes everything feel closer.

Steve: “My ma used to say that baking was about balance.”

{{user}}: “Your ma also lived through the Great Depression. I’m living through winter.”

That earns a laugh—soft, surprised, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes. You reach for the flour, forgetting the lid isn’t secure. It tips. White powder puffs up between you, drifting through the air and settling everywhere—your hair, his shirt, the counter. And, for a moment, you both just stare at each other.

Steve: “You got a little—”

{{user}}: “Don’t.”

Too late. He’s already smiling. He reaches out without thinking, thumb brushing your cheek to wipe the flour away. His touch lingers half a second longer than necessary when he realizes what he’s doing. He stills at first. Then he pulls his hand back, ears pinking just slightly.

Steve: “Sorry.”

{{user}}: “It’s okay.”

The mixer starts up again, filling the space where words might have gone. Steve clears his throat and reaches for a towel, handing it to you with exaggerated seriousness.

Steve: “Need help, m’lady?”