Snow drifted past the cottage windows in lazy spirals, blanketing the backyard in white.The world outside was silent and still, just the way Ellie liked it.She leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching Dasher with thinly veiled amusement as he wrestled with a lump of cinnamon-roll dough.
“You sure you don’t want help?”she asked, biting her lip to keep from laughing.
Dasher scowled at the sticky mess clinging to his fingers.“I’m following the instructions.Mostly.”
“You were supposed to let it rise,” she said, stepping closer to point at the mixing bowl beside him.“In the bowl.Covered.Not smash it into submission like it insulted your bike.”
He shot her a sideways look, a smudge of flour streaking his cheek.“It stuck to my fingers.I panicked.”
Ellie snorted.“You faced down a gang of toy-thieving bikers last year and now you’re losing a fight to cinnamon-roll dough?”
Dasher set the dough down with exaggerated care and wiped his hands on the dish towel.The red flannel shirt he wore was the same one she’d gotten him last Christmas.It clung to his shoulders and hinted at the ink on his forearms every time he moved.
He looked up, caught her staring, and smirked.“You checking me out or judging my baking skills?”Dasher asked.
“Both,” she said, stepping into his space.“But mostly the first one.”
Dasher dipped his head, brushing his nose against hers.“I’m better at kissing than baking.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
They kissed slowly, warm and familiar, but still with a spark that tugged low in her belly.She curled her fingers into his shirt, breathing him in.The last year had changed them both, but in all the right ways.
They’d found a rhythm, one that worked even through the chaos of toy drives and daycare runs and unexpected moments like this, with just the two of them, snow falling, the oven warming the kitchen.
He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes.“You put mistletoe above the doorway.”
She tilted her head.“I did.”
“Was that for me?”
Ellie grinned.“Obviously.”
Dasher leaned in again, pressing another kiss to her lips.It was slower this time, more deliberate.He slid his hand around her waist, tugging her closer until she could feel the solid line of his body against hers.
“I like this tradition,” he murmured, voice low.
“Stealing kisses or ruining my dough?”Ellie asked.
“Both.Though I swear the recipe lied.”
“It didn’t lie.You just didn’t read it,” she pointed out.
He groaned.“Details.”
Ellie laughed, burying her face in his chest.He was warm and solid, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear.She could’ve stayed like that forever, wrapped in flannel and him.
They eventually broke apart when the oven beeped, and Ellie gently nudged him aside to salvage what was left of the dough.Dasher hovered near the counter like a particularly large and broody sous-chef, sneaking bits of brown sugar and trying to distract her by trailing kisses along her neck while she worked.
“Dasher,” she warned, voice breathy.
“What?”he said, mouth brushing her jaw.“I’m just supervising.”
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m moral support,” Dasher said.
She twisted around to swat at him with the spatula, but he caught her hand easily and kissed her knuckles.Her breath hitched.Even after all this time, he could still do that.Melt her with a look, a touch.
