She was humming under her breath —humming— as she searched the cupboards for a bowl, barefoot, underwear still peeking undermyhalf-buttoned flannel. And I couldn’t stop staring at her. I couldn’t believe that this was the same girl who had me on my knees not ten minutes ago, now acting like she had every right to make herself at home in what wassupposed to bemy kitchen — because shedid. Somehow, she did.
“You’re staring,” she said, not looking up.
“I’m allowed.”
That made her smile, that little one she tried to hide — like she hadn’t been waiting her whole life for someone to tell her that. The little blush that tinged her cheeks was enough to bring a weaker man to his knees.
She found the bowl, set it down. Paused a moment with her fingers tucked around the rim. That’s when I saw it — the quietflicker in her expression. Not fear, exactly. More like…realization. What happened between us wasn’t just something that fills an afternoon and then burns away.
It lands.
“Silas?” she said, not turning around.
“Yeah?”
She hesitated, then lifted her head. Watery eyes met mine over her shoulder. “Can you… stay right here with me for a minute?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
That earned me another genuine smile, teary, butreal. Messy. Unfiltered. The kind that would haunt me if I ever had the awful sense to walk away.
She didn’t say anything else. Just came toward me, slow. And I opened my arms — slow too. Gentle. No game. No heat. Just…us.
She stepped into me, forehead resting against my collarbone, breath steadying against my chest. I closed my eyes. Pressed a kiss to her hair and let myself sink into the ache of it all. Wanting more but beingso damn gratefulfor exactly this.
The kitchen was quiet. The fire crackled in the next room. And for one rare, suspended moment, we weren’t broken or horny or spiraling idiots with no idea what we were doing.
We were just two people. Safe. Close.
In a type of quiet that means everything.
The snow was still falling outside when she declared we were “absolutely baking cookies,” like it was a thing grown adults did in post-orgasmic bliss on a Thursday afternoon.
“What kind?” I’d asked, knowing full well she’d already decided.
“Chocolate chip, obviously,” she said, like the question was embarrassing.
I watched her dig through cabinets again. The longer I watched her, the more my chest tightened with something that wasnotpurely lust.
Something worse.
Something like — hope.
She didn’t notice. Or maybe she did and pretended not to, keeping just enough space between us, likethiswas the new game. Closeness. Domesticity. Intimacy disguised as mischief.
“Are you going to help,” she asked, twisting around to look at me, “or are you going to stand there and smolder like a Victorian widower?”
I stepped in behind her. Bent just enough to murmur in her ear, “That depends. Do you want help, or do you want a reason to accuse me of being controlling again?”
She scoffed, but she smiled. “Just grab the flour,old man.”
She didn’t see the way that hit me. Not because it was insulting — but because she was so…here. Joking. Settled. Acting like I’d always been in this kitchen with her, like she’d always been free to tease me into a mood I couldn’t quite pull out of.
I pulled down the flour. She squealed when the bag puffed a cloud of fine dust right into her face. I should’ve said sorry. Instead, I laughed. Hard.
She scowled at me. “That wasn’t funny.”
“Yes, it was.”
