I clear my throat. "Look, you started it."
"I didn’t mean to launch buttercream at you." She's laughing now, the sound unsteady. "But youlickedmy thumb!"
The corner of my mouth twitches. "We'll call it even."
"Truce." She slides the tray out, keeping her hands busy. "Do you want to help me frost these?"
I eye the bowl like it might explode. "I'm not exactlydelicate."
"You don't need to be delicate. You need to be generous." She hands me a butter knife. "Swoop and swirl. Think snowdrifts."
My first attempt looks like an avalanche. The second is worse. The third is barely passable, and I'm starting to understand why I stick to woodworking. I huff, pissed.
"Here, let me.” She slides beside me, shoulder to shoulder, and demonstrates. "Start in the center, press, then ease up as you drag out."
She guides my wrist without touching, our movements mirroring. I adjust, and the frosting behaves for once, forming something that almost looks intentional.
"You make it look easy," I mutter.
"It's just practice." She shrugs. "And not caring if a few turn out ugly because ugly cookies still taste good, don't they?"
Wait—she's not talking about cookies anymore, is she?
We work quietly after that. Her humming fills the space—something Christmasy I don't recognize. Bear inches closer until she breaks and gives him a plain cookie. The storm howls outside, but in here, it's warm.
Dangerous, almost.
She scoops frosting onto her knife, eyes glinting with mischief. "Truly even?"
I eye the weapon. "Don't."
"Seems wasteful."
"Cookie."
"Red."
She flicks toward my forearm. I catch her wrist mid-arc, both of us staring at the frosting trembling on the blade. My grip is firm—not hard, but enough to feel her pulse hammering against my fingers.
"Truce.” I mean it.
She swallows and nods. "Okay."
I release her slowly, and the frosting loses its grip. She tilts the knife to save it, but her ankle slides on the flour-dusted floor.
She yelps.
My training kicks in before thought does. One arm wraps around her waist, hauling her against me before she can fall. The knife clatters on the counter, and suddenly she's pressed against my chest, her hands flat on my shirt, her breaths coming fast.
"Careful," I growl.
The sound surprises me. Surprises her too, if the way her eyes widen is any indication, but the feeling of her in my arms does something to me. I grip her so tight my knuckles ache. The last person I held like this, protected like this, didn't make it home. I couldn't save him.
I won't make that mistake again.
I should let go and step back, maybe put some distance between us before this goes somewhere it can't come back from.
But I don't.
