The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and sugar and comfort.

Mizi stood beside you in one of her pastel aprons, sleeves rolled up to her elbows as she carefully arranged apple slices into the waiting pie crust. A little bit of flour dusted her cheeks, and the tip of her nose crinkled in that adorable way when she was concentrating.

You reached over to sneak an apple slice from the bowl.

“Hey!” she gasped dramatically, catching you mid-chomp.

She narrowed her eyes like she was about to scold you—but then broke into a giggle, grabbing one for herself and biting into it with a matching crunch. The two of you stood there, lips curled into laughter, giggling like kids as your shoulders bumped.

“We’re literally making a pie,” she teased through a smile, “and you still couldn’t wait?”