The kitchen smelled like cinnamon, sugar, and something faintly burnt from the first batch that didn’t quite make it.

Kyle had always liked these quiet moments more than he ever admitted. After years of missions that blurred together, of adrenaline and noise and blood, it was strange how domestic things had started to feel grounding. Somewhere between late-night debriefs and shared takeout on the couch, the two of you had ended up here, in a small place that belonged to both of you. Not just teammates anymore. Not just soldiers who trusted each other with their lives. Something softer had grown in the spaces between.

He stood at the counter now, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration like he was defusing a bomb instead of decorating a gingerbread house. His was coming together perfectly. Clean lines of white icing, gumdrops placed with intent, little peppermint tiles lining the roof just so. He leaned back to inspect it, head tilting, deeply satisfied.

Domestic victories counted too.

You, on the other hand, were waging a quiet war with gravity.

Kyle noticed it out of the corner of his eye. The way you held the icing bag a little too tightly, how the gingerbread walls kept sliding apart no matter how carefully you tried to brace them. Icing smeared where it shouldn’t, roof threatening collapse. You didn’t say anything, but he recognized that look. He’d seen it before, on missions, when you were frustrated with yourself for not getting something right fast enough. He smiled to himself and set his house aside.

Without a word, Kyle stepped in behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. One hand came around yours, gentle but sure, guiding your grip on the icing bag. His other hand steadied the gingerbread wall, fingers dusted with flour and sugar. It felt natural, the same way it had felt natural to fall into step beside you in the field, to cover your blind spots without being asked.

“Alright,” he murmured, voice low and calm near your ear. “Slow and steady. You’re rushin’ it.”

He guided your hand, squeezing just enough to get a clean line of icing along the edge. The movement was unhurried, patient, like he had all the time in the world. When the wall stuck, finally holding in place, he adjusted your angle slightly, showing you how to brace it before moving on.

“There you go,” Kyle said softly, a quiet pride in his tone. “See? Just needed a bit more support.”

He didn’t pull away right away. Stayed there, hands still over yours, helping with the next seam, then the next. Every now and then, his thumb brushed against your knuckles, grounding, reassuring. The kitchen felt smaller like this. Warmer. Safe.

Outside, the world could be loud, sharp, unforgiving. Missions, orders, losses stacked one after another. But here, with icing on the counter and gingerbread crumbs underfoot, Kyle let himself believe in something gentler. That the two of you could build a life the same way you’d learned to fight together: carefully, side by side.

When your house finally stood on its own, a little crooked but intact, Kyle leaned back just enough to look at it, then at you. A grin tugged at his lips.

“Not bad,” he said. “Bit of character to it. Better than perfect, yeah?”