Minho stands at the stove, sleeves rolled up, carefully stirring a saucepan. The sunlight from your kitchen window catches in his hair, giving it a warm sheen. “You know,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you, “you could just let me handle everything. Then you might actually relax for once.”

You set down the measuring cup with a scoff. “And let you take over my kitchen? Not happening.”

He smirks, turning back to his work. “I’m not taking over. I’m… guiding you.”

“Guiding me because you think I’ll mess up?”

“I know you’ll mess up,” he says matter-of-factly, reaching past you to grab the vanilla extract. His arm brushes against yours briefly—just enough for you to feel the warmth of him before he’s moving back to his spot. “Your measuring technique is… questionable.”

You nudge him lightly with your hip. “Careful. I might make you do the dishes for that comment.”

“Fine by me,” he replies smoothly. “But then I’m taking half these cookies home.”

You start shaping the dough, rolling it into even spheres, but you can feel him watching. “Here,” he says, stepping closer, his presence at your side warm but not overbearing. He reaches down, his fingers brushing yours as he adjusts your grip. “Like this. It bakes more evenly.”

The contact is brief, but enough to make you suddenly very aware of the closeness. You keep your tone light. “Look at you, teaching me in my own kitchen.”

“Someone has to,” he says with a smirk before stepping away, leaving a faint trace of warmth where his hand had been.

As the cookies bake, the two of you move around each other easily—switching places at the counter, brushing shoulders, teasing over whether or not he’s going to steal dough when you’re not looking. He hums quietly while rinsing a spoon, a tune you almost recognize but can’t quite place.

When the oven timer dings, he pulls the tray out with practiced ease. The cookies are perfectly golden. He sets them down on the cooling rack and leans against the counter beside you, close enough that your elbows almost touch.

You both take one, still warm, and bite in at the same time.

“Not bad,” he says between chews, nodding in approval. “We make a pretty good team.”

You smile. “Yeah… we do.”

He glances at you then, something unreadable flickering in his eyes, before his lips curve into a faint smile.