My eyes drag from his legs back up to his face, his cheeks are faintly pink, a shy smile blooming there like he’s trying not to seem too eager.
Too late.
I step out of the elevator slowly, my gaze never leaving him. His eyes follow me, bright, full of something that feels dangerously close to adoration.
“How long have you been standing here?” I ask, my voice low.
“Since you texted that you were almost home,” he says, with a small, cheerful shrug.
That’s all he says. He doesn’t need to say more.
Not when his face looks like this glowing and open. Like I’m the only thing he’s been waiting for all day.
Something in my chest twists. Not painfully. Just… deeply. It’s beautiful, and terrifying, and I know he doesn’t even realize what he does to me.
He has no idea how much I adore this, how much I adore him.
I close the distance between us without thinking, my heart pounding hard. And then I reach for him, cupping his face gently in both hands, as if he’s something fragile. Something irreplaceable and precious.
Because he is.
To me, he is.
He blinks up at me, wide-eyed and glowing, his skin warm in my touch as he leans into my palms.
I lower my head and kiss him.
Slowly. Deliberately.
His lips part, soft and warm and familiar in the way only his ever have been. The kiss is not urgent, not rushed or with hunger. Just the kind of kiss that says I missed you, I thought about you all day, I need this. I need you.
His arms slip around my waist as I kiss him deeper, melting into me. His fingers twist into the fabric of my shirt, pulling me closer like he doesn’t want to let go.
He sighs softly into the kiss, and I swallow the sound like it’s sacred.
I could stay right here forever with his mouth on mine, his breath shaking against me. I let my hands slide to the back of his hair, holding him there, anchoring both of us in this moment, letting myself feel him.
When I finally pull back, his eyes are fluttering open—lips kiss-bitten, face flushed, his eyes dazed and searching mine like he’s trying to make sure this is real.
“Would you like to try the cake I made for you now?” he asks, voice shaky and breathless.
I can’t help the breathless laugh that leaves me.
“Of course, Baby.”
He lights up, his face turning bright, then he pulls away, grabbing my hand and starts tugging me toward the kitchen, barefoot and buzzing with energy. His fingers are small in mine, warm, grounding. I let him lead.
As we walk, he keeps talking—eyes glowing, words rushing out in that rare way he does when he’s too excited but shy.
“Your mom was really patient with me,” he says, glancing up as we cross the hallway. “She showed me step-by-step. Said it’s a family recipe, like generations old.”
“She did?”
“Uh-huh,” he replies, laughing, “I made so many mistakes and was clumsy, but she was still so sweet with me.”
He lets go of my hand when we reach the kitchen and goes straight to the fridge. I sit on one of the counter stools, watching him as he brings out a half-sized cake.
He uncovers it gently, sets it on the island, then grabs a clean plate, a fork, and a small cake knife. His movements are focused, a little nervous, but precise.
