The sky outside was a thick blanket of soft gray, the clouds heavy and unmoving, casting a dim, muted light over the small kitchen. The gentle patter of rain against the windows echoed in the background, a soothing rhythm that contrasted with the warmth radiating from the oven. You stood at the counter, fingers coated in flour, methodically working the dough in front of you. The kitchen smelled faintly of sugar and vanilla, the promise of cookies lingering in the air as you attempted to knead the sticky mass into something smooth enough to fold in the chocolate chips.

It was one of those perfect, cozy days—the kind where the world outside felt distant and all that mattered was the moment you were in. You could hear Steve moving around the house, his footsteps padding quietly through the hallway, but you didn’t look up. Instead, you focused on spreading the dough just right, trying to resist the urge to sneak a taste of it before it was ready.

But then, as expected, you felt him approach before he even touched you. Steve was always there when food was involved—especially if there were sweets. Without a word, he slipped behind you, his presence warm and solid. His arms snaked around your waist, pulling you close, and you could feel the soft fabric of his worn flannel against your back. He leaned in, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder, breath warm against your skin.

"Whatcha doing?" he murmured, voice low and playful, as his hands slid over yours, lightly dusting them with more flour.