The kitchen was chaos. Flour dusted the counters, the floor, and somehow even Aaron’s tie. He loosened it with a huff, his sleeves already rolled up as he attempted to knead dough with more determination than skill. The recipe card sat propped up against the sugar jar, a witness to the mess he’d created.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, hiding your smile as you watched him.

He didn’t look up, knowing what you were about to ask, his brows furrowed in concentration. “Jack wanted Christmas cookies for his class party tomorrow,” he muttered. “And I promised I’d help. But—” He gestured to the sticky, uncooperative dough. “This isn’t exactly my area of expertise.”

You couldn’t hold back your laugh anymore, stepping into the room to help.

He finally looked at you, his frustration melting into something softer. “I was hoping you’d help,” he admitted, a small, sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “You’re much better at this than I am.”

Taking the dough from him, you started to guide his hands, showing him how to work it properly. His shoulders relaxed as he followed your lead, and soon, the tension seemed to melt away entirely.

“See?” you teased, glancing up at him. “Not so hard, is it?”

He leaned down, brushing a flour-covered kiss to your temple. “Not when I have you.”