PIN

Nico adjusted his apron, eyes flicking between the recipe book and the flour-dusted countertop. His grip on the whisk was firm, controlled—like always. Across from him, Tim was all movement, energy spilling out of him in every gesture, from the way he leaned over the counter to the smudge of flour streaked across his cheek.

They had just moved in together a week ago, and their tiny kitchen had already become the heart of their new home. The walls still smelled of fresh paint, the boxes in the living room remained half-unpacked, but none of that mattered. What mattered was this—warm light filtering in through the window, the scent of sugar and vanilla in the air, and Tim grinning at him like they’d been doing this forever.

“Are you sure we need to follow the recipe exactly?” Tim teased, nudging Nico with his elbow. His fingers, dusted in flour, left white fingerprints on Nico’s sleeve.

“Yes,” Nico said flatly, though the corners of his lips twitched. “That’s how baking works.”

Tim snorted. “That’s how you work. But a little improvisation never hurt anyone.”

Before Nico could stop him, Tim reached for the cinnamon and dumped an unmeasured amount into the bowl. A soft cloud of spice filled the air.

“Tim—”

“It’ll taste amazing, I promise.” Tim grinned and threw an arm around Nico’s shoulders, as if his enthusiasm alone could win him over.

Nico sighed, shaking his head but unable to hide his amusement. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” Tim shot back, swiping some flour from the counter and dabbing it on Nico’s nose.