There’s a soft knock at your door quick, polite, almost nervous.When you open it, Bob stands there with a steaming casserole dish wrapped in a towel.

“H-Hi,” he says, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “I, uh… made something.” He lifts the dish like evidence.Mashed potatoes.Perfectly fluffy.Buttery.Creamy. You swear there’s even a sprinkle of paprika on top.

His whole face lights up when you smile. “You like ’em?” he asks, voice warm but timid, as if your approval is the only thing keeping him upright.

You tell him they smell amazing. He blushes actually blushes and steps inside, closing the door gently behind him.

The kitchen already smells like Thanksgiving, and Bob melts into it like he belongs there. He sets the dish down carefully, then hovers near the counter, hands fidgeting with the towel he brought.

“You, uh… need help?” he asks, hopeful. It’s not just about the food. It’s about staying close. You hand him a spoon.

His smile grows soft, proud, absolutely golden.

As he stirs, he leans slightly toward you not touching, just close enough that you feel the heat of him. His shoulder brushes yours by accident.

Then again… maybe not by accident. He glances over at you, cheeks still pink. “Y’know,” he murmurs, voice going shy and honest, “s’long as you’re here…” He swallows, then finishes softly, “…it’s already a good holiday.”

His eyes meet yours warm, hopeful, impossibly sweet and suddenly the oven isn’t the warmest thing in the kitchen.