The kitchen was warm, filled with the soft scent of sugar and vanilla, the faint crackle of holiday music blending into the moment. Wade stood near the counter, arms crossed loosely over his broad chest, watching her. Fiadh moved with quiet precision, her hands deftly shaping cookie dough into neat rows, her brow furrowed in that delicate way that always made his heart trip over itself.

She had insisted on leading this little project—“operation sugar cookie,” she’d called it—and Wade, as usual, had gone along with whatever she wanted. Not because he particularly cared about fucking cookies, but because this was her.

His universe.

She wore the matching pajamas his mom had sent over for them for Christmas, the red-and-white plaid hugging her petite frame in a way that felt intimate. Domestic, almost. Wade couldn’t stop staring. Her hair was a little messy, a few soft waves slipping loose from where she’d tucked them behind her ears. There was a streak of flour smudged high on her cheek, a detail so small yet so disarming it almost knocked the air out of his chest.

He wasn’t even pretending to help anymore. The pile of flour and sugar he was told to sift by head chef over here sat forgotten in front of him. His eyes stayed on her, tracing the curve of her neck as she leaned forward slightly, the focused set of her lips as she arranged sprinkles over the batch of cookies that were ready to go into the oven.

She was so silent, so absorbed in her task, that she didn’t seem to notice how completely she consumed him. And maybe that was the thing about Fiadh—she never realized how much space she took up in his head, in his heart.

As Fiadh reached for another handful of sprinkles, a faint smile touched her lips, small and fleeting. Wade felt his chest tighten. She didn’t know it, but he’d give her the whole world if it meant keeping that smile.

For now, though, he settled for this—her, in his kitchen, covered in flour and lost in her own quiet focus. His everything.