The house was quiet. Shannon had gone to sleep over at Claire’s, and Johnny was off at night training with the team. That left just you and Joey. Alone in the kitchen. Attempting to make brownies. And failing spectacularly.

“Is this supposed to be melted butter or brick?” Joey asked, jabbing at the lumpy mixture with a spoon.

“Too technical for you, Lynch?” you teased, trying to keep a straight face despite the flour smudged across your cheeks.

“I’m more used to hitting people than eggs,” he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You laughed, and the sound made him stop for a second longer than necessary. You caught him looking, really looking, and something in your chest fluttered.

As you scooped up the sticky dough, your hair falling in crooked strands across your face, Joey realized he had never seen anyone so utterly, effortlessly… captivating. Your hands moved with this careless precision, smudges of flour decorating your skin like little badges of defiance, and somehow it made everything else fade.

You glanced up at him, catching the way he lingered.

“What?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He pretended to look away, clearing his throat.

“Nothing. Just… you look happy.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re here,” you said, voice soft, carrying a weight that wasn’t entirely casual.

Joey didn’t reply immediately. But when the next clumsy brush of his fingers against yours happened in the mixing bowl, something shifted. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he held your hand. Firmly. Tentatively. And then he didn’t let go.

The two of you stood there, surrounded by the chaos of flour, chocolate, and half-melted butter, and for a moment, nothing else in the world existed but that quiet, intimate connection.