“Yes, you, culinary wunderkind,” Cassian said with a wink. “You’re our secret weapon. No pressure, though.”
Sean rolled his eyes but he was smiling and blushing, which I liked too much.
“Alright, so let’s strategize,” I said. “We get one signature item to showcase. Something that screams Bear and Bun.”
“Bear Claws?” Leo suggested immediately.
“Too obvious,” Sean said, thoughtful. “They’re great, but we want something unexpected. Elevated.”
I watched his face as he spoke. I always did. He got this crease in his brow when he was deep in food-thought, and I’d started reading his expressions like a second language.
“What about savory-sweet?” he continued. “It’s memorable. Like a honey-rosemary peach hand pie with gouda and black pepper crust.”
The room went very quiet.
Then Rafael gave a low whistle. “Dang Sean, that sounds... sexy.”
Cassian fake-fainted.
I leaned forward, propped my elbows on the counter, and met Sean’s eyes. “You make that, we win.”
His lips curled. “You’re just saying that because I’m cute.”
I smirked. “That’s true. But also, you’re a genius. So. Double threat.”
After that, the brainstorming kicked into high gear. We threw out ideas, argued over fillings, debated crust textures like it was life or death.
Someone suggested something with lavender, and someone else booed them out of the room. It was chaotic. Loud. Home.
Eventually, the guys packed up.
Cassian needed to walk someone’s dog, Rafael got a late-night gym text, and Leo claimed he had a “date” which we allknew probably meant rewatching cooking competitions in his pajamas.
Sean and I stayed behind. I wasn’t ready to go home yet. Not with that buzz still in my chest. Not when I could spend another hour or two in a quiet kitchen with him.
“You want to try making a test batch of those pies?” I asked.
Sean’s eyes lit up. “You’re reading my mind.”
We set up in the kitchen, with him peeling peaches and measuring spices, me prepping the crust.
We moved around each other easily now, like we’d always known how to. He passed me the butter without me asking.
I filled the sink just as he needed to rinse his hands. It was a rhythm, a dance, and it made something inside me ache with how good it felt.
I watched the way his fingers moved as he folded the dough, gentle but sure. The concentration on his face.
The little bounce in his step when he tasted the filling and muttered, “Yup, that’s it.”
Gosh. I could do this forever.
The smell of warm pastry filled the kitchen. I set the timer, then turned toward him. He was leaning against the counter, licking a bit of peach filling off his thumb. I stared.
“What?” he asked, smirking like he knew exactly what he was doing.
I stepped closer. “You’re dangerous.”
He tilted his head. “You just figuring that out now?”
