There’s a knock soft, polite, almost rhythmic. You open the door to find Chris Beck holding a small metal container like he’s guarding treasure.

“Hi,” he says, cheeks pink from the cold. “I, um… brought something.” He lifts it. “Space-approved mashed potatoes. Technically for zero-G use, but…” He smiles, bashful. “I thought you might like to try them on Earth first.” He steps inside, warm air hitting his cheeks. His eyes sweep your kitchen the flour on the counter, the half-mixed dough, the open cookbook. “You’ve been busy,” he murmurs, admiration slipping into his voice.

He tosses his jacket aside and rolls up his sleeves with quiet confidence, moving to stand beside you. His presence is calm, grounding. Like he brings the whole of mission control’s steadiness with him.

You push your hands back into the dough. Beck watches, entranced. “Here,” he says gently, slipping in beside you. “Let me…”

His hands brush yours warm, steady, careful guiding the mix with a touch that feels more like affection than instruction.

Flour streaks your cheek. Beck notices instantly. He hesitates only a heartbeat before lifting his hand.

His thumb brushes across your skin feather-light, reverent. “There you go,” he whispers.

But he doesn’t step away. Not yet. His gaze drops to your hands again, moving together in the bowl.

“You look…” He clears his throat, smiling shyly. “Beautiful like this. Let me help. I love when your hands are next to mine.”

The kitchen goes quiet. Warm.Soft. He stays that close for the rest of the prep heart full, hands steady, smile growing every time your fingers touch again.