#baking disaster

He could still see the initial blast before it went sideways, nearly feeling the heat of it on his face all over again. If Ava hadn’t phased, she would’ve been gone. Vaporized, just like that. And he couldn’t stop thinking about what would’ve happened if it had been someone who couldn’t pass through reality like she could. That thought followed him all through the Tower, pressing like a bruise beneath his ribs. He didn’t trust himself to be alone just yet, not with the way his thoughts were spiraling. 

So Bucky trudged into the communal kitchen, hoping to find you. The soft golden light was filtering in through the windows casting long shadows on the floor. The air was thick with the scent of cinnamon, butter and caramelizing sugar. Warm, rich, and enough to make his mouth water. 

For a split second, he was just a kid in Brooklyn again. He could almost clearly see his Ma and sister humming in the kitchen while they baked. But the next second he blinked, the vision was gone. The smell stayed though, wrapped in comfort and sugar. 

He almost didn’t want to disturb you, catching sight of your back, a towel slung across your shoulder. He didn't want to ruin the endorphin spike you got when you baked something.

The apple pie you had made from scratch was just popped into the oven when you heard the scuff of boots behind you. “Oh good, you’re back, how was the –” 

The question died on your lips as you turned and saw Bucky. Knuckles bloody, shoulders tight with tension, and the weight of what had happened behind his stormy expression. You knew that look, and had worn it many times yourself when things didn’t go as planned. 

“Sit.” It wasn’t a barking command, but a gentle request. 

He shook his head, holding up his gear bag, “I should put this back.”

“Nope, sit.” You said, pushing a chair closer and taking the bag from him before he could protest.

Bucky folded his body down, too tired to argue. You kicked the bag off to the side, hands already opening a spare medkit you kept under the sink. You didn’t ask if the mission was successful. In the grand scheme of things, you knew it was or he wouldn’t be back here. Bucky Barnes was many things out in the field, and a failure was not one of them. He never left something unfinished. But something had to have gone wrong for him not to come scoop you up into his arms and ask how your day was like he normally did when he returned. 

You cleaned the scrapes on his knuckles from the dried blood, applied small drops of ointment and bandages to the cuts on his face. All the while saying nothing. His arm had hooked around your waist, holding you steady like you were an anchor in a stormy sea. “Anywhere else hurt?”

“No.” His voice was tired, frayed around the edges. You knew that likely wasn’t the case, but you didn’t push it further.

“Okay, go get changed and cleaned up.” You pressed your lips against his forehead, his arm reluctantly dropping its hold around your waist. 

Around an hour later, you pushed your way into Bucky’s room in the Tower. Finding him hunched on the edge of his bed, hair still damp from a shower. Staring off into space. You knew then that this was a man reeling, watching the highlight reel of failures in the field.

There were two things that you did after a rough mission to help you come back to the present. Eat sweets and watch ridiculous romantic comedies. And you had a feeling that that was just what Bucky needed right now.

“Just finished. Still warm from the oven.” You pushed the plate with a large slice of apple pie and a dollop of vanilla ice cream into his hands. 

“Thanks.” His fingers didn’t reach for the spoon right away, even as the ice cream melted and threatened to drip off the edge of the plate and onto his bedspread. 

You casually sat next to him, grabbing the TV remote. “Movie?” You asked, though you were already flipping through the options. 

Bucky shrugged, finally taking a bite. The crust flaked apart on his tongue, buttery and warm. The cool contrast of the ice cream and the subtle spices were like a bandaid for the soul in the way they almost soothed through the guilt and shame.

You selected Two Weeks Notice, a quintessential rom com in your humble opinion, and one you knew Bucky hadn’t watched yet. 

And as the opening credits faded onto the screen and some soft pop song played over the speakers, you let him fall into the safety of your arms. His head rested against your chest, letting the steady sound of your heartbeat become the only thing tying him to reality and safety. Your hand moved in gentle patterns along his shoulders and back absentmindedly.

Bucky felt it the second your breathing slowed, drifting off to sleep with your arms still around his shoulders. The realization hit him then like a bolt of lightning. After a rough mission, he likely would’ve just stewed in his anger and spite for days. Maybe taking it out on a punching bag or locking himself in his room until he could get ahold of the feeling of worthlessness eating him alive.

But not tonight. Tonight, you had conjured peace and stability in a space where he would normally have none.

Instead, you helped him come down from the adrenaline spike of a mission gone wrong and fall into a soft cloud of apples, cinnamon, and your warm embrace. He glanced at the calendar by his bedside table before he felt his eyes grow heavy, October 1st. The day that Bucky Barnes realized just how deeply in love he was with you.

Year 2

The plan was simple. Get you to bake an apple pie and watch one of those awful romantic comedies you loved. The execution? Not so much. 

Bucky had watched you bake before, that wasn’t the issue. He’d perched on a barstool while you bustled around the kitchen, measuring things with expert certainty, sometimes just saying ‘eh’ and dumping in some more of a certain spice. He watched a little crease form in your forehead when the batter wouldn’t come out just right. One that he’d kiss away if you brushed too close to him.

He stared at the apple display of the supermarket for fifteen minutes, arms crossed. Trying to remember if the apples were at least green or red or yellow. But he had always been too focused on the way you danced around the kitchen, laughed at his jokes, let him taste test when you were sure something was missing. 

The issue was you didn’t use a recipe. That’s what made this so damn hard. You just…knew, somehow. And everything always came out perfectly. Had you ever mentioned the words Honeycrisp or Granny Smith or Fuji apples? Nope. Well, he didn’t want to mess this up. 

And that is how he came to be in possession of four bursting grocery bags, dumped unceremoniously in front of you on the kitchen island. 

“Is this some new…super soldier training program you got going on?” You asked, eyeing the bags as two or three apples rolled off the counter and bounced off the ground. 

He hesitated. God, what was he doing? Of course you’d laugh at the fact he just showed up with armfuls of apples.

But then, you began moving. Separating them into types and making sure no more fell to the ground.

Bucky shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant about this endeavor. “Nah, just…really wanted some apples.” 

“And so you, what, bought out the supermarket?”

“They still had some when I left.” 

You levelled him with an impassive stare, already reaching for an apron, seeing right through him, “Ya know, if you want an apple pie all you have to do is ask, you don’t have to spend a fortune on apples.” 

He held up his hands, eyes wide in innocence, “If you wanna bake, I’m not going to stop you.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, but you got to work anyway. Even with the amount of people who lived in the Tower, these apples would go bad if you didn’t intervene. 

When you found Bucky on the couch, he had his arms crossed, a stoic glare directed towards the TV playing…The Wedding Singer? 

“I thought you hated these kinds of movies. You always complain there’s not enough action.” You said skeptically, placing two plates of apple pie and ice cream on the low coffee table. 

“It was on. Didn’t want to get up to get the remote.”

Your gaze landed on the remote just within reach on the end table beside him. He could’ve changed it, but why hadn’t he?

“Sure.” You conceded, sitting on the floor between his legs.

The movie played on in the background, but Bucky barely noticed. All he could focus on was the weight of you between his legs, the smell of cinnamon, and that feeling of utter peace washing over him just like it did a year ago.

And he was already figuring out how to make this happen again next year.

Year 3

Not wanting to make the same mistake as last year, Bucky had hatched this plan early. Now just to get you to go along with it. 

“An apple orchard.” You deadpanned over your morning coffee. 

Bucky nodded while sipping from his own mug. “Thought it would be a fun way to get the fall festivities started.”

“Since when do you care about fall festivities, Barnes?”

“Since now, get your coat.”

Which is how you found yourself in the center of an orchard, a few hours from the city. Enough that the air now smelled like damp earth and the sweet perfume of thousands of ripe apples. A cool wind whispered through the golden leaves of the rows of trees. 

Bucky held a wicker basket steady between the two of you, watching as you stretched for a low-hanging apple, the hem of your sweater rising a bit. He should’ve just offered to reach it. He could’ve, very easily. But then he’d be missing watching the frown of concentration turn into a grin of triumph the second you got it. 

Sometimes he wondered if this was what peace could really look like. No missions gone haywire, no world to save. Just you, in the soft glow of autumn, laughing over something as mundane as apples.

“I feel like this is deja vu. You can just ask me to make a pie when you get the craving, I don’t mind.”

He slung an arm around your shoulder, pressing a kiss to your temple. “More fun this way, sweetheart.”

Back at the Tower with gentle music filtering through a speaker, you peeled apples with Bucky hovering nearby. He’d occasionally sneak a slice when he thought you weren’t looking. 

“You know, you could help.” You said, swatting his hand away with a spatula when he reached for another piece.

“I am helping.” He insisted, popping the slice in his mouth. “Quality control.” 

You shook your head, turning to grab more cinnamon and vanilla extract. Bucky watched you work with practiced ease, safe in the quiet thrum of domesticity. He just wanted…this. All of this, on repeat. Every day.

It was dark by the time you finished baking. The dishes were piled in the sink, but you decided to leave them until morning. 

Bucky was in your shared room of the Tower, lounging in bed with one hand tucked behind his head and the other on the TV remote. “You ever watch When Harry Met Sally?” He asked casually.

“Of course I have, it’s a classic.”

He hummed, while you easily slipped into bed beside him, plates of pie and ice cream carefully balanced on a tray. Soon after, you heard the opening scene of the movie. You side-eyed him as he ate, feeling like you’d lived a similar day before. Just like before, he didn’t say a word about why.

Maybe next year he’d finally tell you why apple pie and rom coms meant so much to him.

Year 4

This year’s plan was doomed the second Bucky preheated the oven. 

He should’ve known better. Sure, the recipe looked simple enough. He had even found one with instructions for a homemade crust, remembering the time you passed the premade stuff with your nose scrunched. It was just fresh apple slices, a little cinnamon, butter, sugar, flour. Easy right? But watching you bake over the years had given him a dangerously overinflated sense of confidence. 

Now, everything in the kitchen was covered in flour. Globs of cinnamon and butter were splattered along the backsplash. And he felt a strange guilt gnawing at him as he poured the filling into the lopsided dough. He hadn’t realized what a momentous task this was, and just how much love and care it took to do what you made look effortless. 

Yet, you never complained when anyone asked you to bake for them. Birthday cakes, cookies, brownies. They all floated around the Tower in your wake and you always made them with a smile. Even when Alexei asked you to make some obscure Soviet dessert, you somehow managed to find a recipe and produced it with a flourish.

Bucky had just wanted to return the favor. To do it himself for once. And instead? You found him like this. 

“What…are you doing?” You asked, trying to conceal a laugh as you took in the scene. Every single bowl and utensil the kitchen had to offer was either covered in batter or stacked in the sink. Apple peels littered the floor around the island. The soldier in front of you looked like he had lost the great war of sugar and flour; the white powder clung to his cheeks and hair, and he held the rolling pin like it was a weapon. 

“Tried to make a pie…” he mumbled, flour floating off his shoulders as he moved.

“I see. Did you succeed?” 

“I guess we’ll see when the timer goes off.”

You pressed a kiss to his cheek, already reaching for a towel to start cleaning. The two of you stood shoulder to shoulder at the sink, scrubbing dishes in comfortable silence. 

“Again, you could’ve just asked,” you said, rinsing off a particularly sticky measuring cup. “ I would’ve helped. Or taught you so we wouldn’t have to spend hours getting flour out of every crevice of this place.” 

“I know…just wanted to make it special. You bake all the time, I thought maybe I’d return the appreciation.”

Your heart fluttered as you handed off a plate to dry.. “That’s sweet, but the dishes are the part I hate the most. So, maybe next time let me handle the baking and you handle the clean-up.”

The ding of the timer signaled, and you watched as Bucky set the pan on the table. It looked…fine. Technically, it was pie shaped. It was probably edible. “It looks good!” You tried to say, but it didn’t sound the least bit convincing. 

He rubbed the back of his neck looking down at his creation, “You don’t have to lie, sweetheart. I’m a man, I can take some criticism.”

“It’s not a lie. You know how long it took me to figure out how to make the things I bake look pretty? I’m sure it still tastes good.” You continued, poking at the crust and then wincing when it bounced back like a rubber band. “Okay, maybe not.”

Bucky let out a deep sigh, hands on his hips. “It’s ruined.” 

“It’s okay, it was a valiant effort,” you reassured, patting his chest. “I”ll make one tomorrow.” 

“That’s not going to work.”

You frowned, “Why not?”

He exhaled again, though this time it sounded like he was bracing himself for something. “I was going to hide something in it.”

“Like what?”

Bucky produced a small velvet box from his pocket, turning it over in his hands. 

“I should probably explain something first,” he said. “You remember that day, years ago when the mission went sideways when we first started dating? You patched me up. Gave me pie. You didn’t ask questions, didn’t make me talk. Just sat down with me and gave me a soft place to land.”

You nodded, already feeling your chest tighten. Eyes, locked on the box in his hands.

“That day…mattered. More than I ever let on. I made it into a kind of…tradition.”

“And you tried to make me think I was crazy.” 

He let out a shaky laugh, still twirling the box in his hands. “It was the day I realized I was in love with you. Which was wild, because we had only been seriously dating for like a month.” 

“You fell in love with me because I made you pie?”

“No. I fell in love with you because you made me feel safe. The pie was just a bonus.”

Bucky stopped fiddling with the box to finally open it, holding it in your direction. Inside was a ring, the band shaped like tiny branches with leaves wrapping around a single stone.

“I was going to hide this in the pie,” his voice was hushed, barely echoing off the tile of the kitchen. “Because that’s how it started. You feeding me, and taking care of me, and somehow making me feel like maybe I deserve that.”

You blinked, stunned as your gaze went from the ring to the vulnerability in his face in a way that caught you completely off guard. 

“So…will you marry me?” he asked, meeting your gaze. “Even if I can’t bake worth a damn?”

Tears welled in your eyes, jaw trembling as you let out a laugh. “Only if you agree to stay on dish duty for the rest of your life.” 

“Deal.”

You leaned in to kiss him, still tasting a little flour on his mouth. The tension in his shoulders finally dropping as he wrapped his arms around you like he never wanted to let go. 

“Maybe don’t eat the pie though.” You murmured against his lips.

He chuckled in return, “Yeah, that thing’s gotta go.”

And even though the pie was a disaster and flour was still dusted around the kitchen, the ring fit perfectly and the smell of cinnamon still hung in the air.

And October 1st would always be the day that Bucky Barnes realized that he wanted to spend forever with you.

The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and orange zest. Mariah Carey was hitting her high notes on the radio, competing with the hum of the oven.

Ollie was perched on a barstool at the kitchen island, looking ridiculously soft in a knitted jumper that was slightly too big for him. He was officially on winter break. This meant no flights to catch, no cameras, no engineers in his ear. Just him, a half-empty mug of tea, and his eyes fixed on you with that lazy, affectionate gaze that always made your knees a little weak.

"You've been staring at that mixing bowl for ten minutes," he teased, his voice low and raspy from sleep. "Is it going to tell you its secrets?"

"It’s the Yule Log, Ollie," you muttered, wiping flour from your forehead. "It’s the centerpiece. If I mess this up, Christmas dinner is just… dinner."

"Right. Serious business. I'll stay out of the danger zone." He held up his hands in mock surrender, grinning.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help the small smile tugging at your lips. It was the same grin he’d given you when you were thirteen, shivering in the backyard during a neighborhood Christmas party. That was the night everything changed. He’d awkwardly shoved a poorly wrapped gift into your hands (a silver bracelet he’d definitely panicked and bought with his mum’s help) and mumbled that he liked you more than he liked karting.

That was before the academies, the media training, and the Formula 1 grid. You had loved him before he was "Ollie Bearman, the driver." You loved him when he was just Ollie, the boy with the messy hair and the soft smiles.

Now, barely into your twenties, you existed in that comfortable, worn-in space of being "basically married." You had grown up together, your awkward teenage years blending seamlessly into domestic adulthood.

Which was exactly why you were stressing over a cake. You weren't just the girlfriend who liked to bake cookies on the weekends. You were a professional pastry chef. A rising star in London’s pastry scene, recently promoted to Junior Sous Chef at a bakery that had a line down the block every morning.

But ironically, that made this harder.

The cake was for the Bearman family's Christmas Eve dinner tomorrow. When you’re a professional chef, you don't get the luxury of bringing just any dessert. This had to be perfect because it was for the people you loved most.

Everything was going according to plan… until the timer dinged.

You pulled the sponge cake out of the oven. You knew the drill: roll it while it’s hot so it holds the spiral shape. You laid out the towel, tipped the pan, and started to gently curl the edge.

Snap.

A jagged, ugly crack tore right down the center of the sponge.

"It’s fine," you whispered, your heart rate spiking. "It’s fine. Ganache can cover this."

You turned to the stove to finish the orange filling. You reached for the sugar jar blindly, your eyes still glued to the broken cake. You dumped a spoonful into the zest mixture and stirred, only to realize a second later that the jar label said Sea Salt Flakes. You were so tired you hadn't even checked.

"No," you breathed, scraping the ruined, salty mixture into the sink. "Okay. Okay, just the chocolate bark then. We save it with the bark."

You grabbed the bowl of melted high-quality dark chocolate. You turned on the tap to wash a spoon, and a single, traitorous drop of water splashed up and landed dead center in the bowl. Instantly, the glossy, smooth liquid turned into a grainy, dull, concrete-like clump.

"Oh, for God's sake," you hissed, the bowl clattering onto the counter a little too hard.

Ollie straightened up on his stool, sensing the shift in the atmosphere immediately. The playful laziness evaporated. He set his mug down, leaning his elbows on the island to get a better look.

"What?" he asked, his brow furrowing. "What happened? It looks… chocolatey?"

"It seized, Ollie," you snapped, voice tighter than you intended. You aggressively stirred the grainy mess, hoping for a miracle that wasn't coming. "Water got in. It’s useless. I can't use this for the ganache, it'll feel like sand in your mouth."

"Okay, hey," he said softly, sliding off the stool. He took a tentative step toward you, hands slightly raised like he was approaching a startled animal. "Don't spiral. It’s just one bowl. We can fix it, right? Do we have more?"

"No, we don't! That was the last of the 70% stuff I brought home from the bakery," you groaned, running a hand through your hair, leaving a streak of flour on your temple. "I can't serve your parents gritty supermarket chocolate, Ollie. I’m a chef. They expect better than this."

"Babe, my parents eat digestives out of the packet," he countered gently, reaching out to touch your arm. "They don't care about the percentage of the cocoa."

"I care!" you cried out, pulling away from his touch because the frustration was boiling over, hot and suffocating.

You were vibrating with stress now. You spun around, eyes stinging, needing to just get this mess into the trash, and your elbow clipped the cooling rack on the edge of the counter.

Crash.

The tray of delicate, perfect meringue mushrooms, the ones you’d spent an hour piping, hit the tiled floor. They shattered instantly, sending a cloud of white sugary powder into the air like a snowstorm.

You stared at the white dust on the floor, the cracked sponge, the seized chocolate, and the salt-filling. The pressure of making everything perfect just collapsed in on you. You sank to the floor, sitting right in the middle of the crushed meringue shards, pulling your knees to your chest.

"I can't do it," you whispered, your voice cracking. "I ruined it. I actually ruined Christmas."

The music cut out abruptly. Ollie padded over to where you were crouching. He didn't care about his grey sweatpants or the sticky, powdery ruins of your hard work. He sat cross-legged next to you in the debris of the meringue mushrooms and wrapped a heavy, solid arm around your shoulders, pulling you forcefully into his side.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice rumbling against your ear. He pressed a firm, lingering kiss to your temple. "Breathe."

"I’m such an idiot," you choked out, staring at a shard of meringue that looked remarkably like a mushroom cap. "I do this for a living, Ollie. People pay twenty quid for my tarts, and I can't even make a log for your mum."

"You're not at work," he said softly, tightening his grip when you tried to pull away. "You're not Chef right now. You're just… you. You’re my girl who’s been awake since 6 AM and is trying way too hard."

"But it had to be perfect," you whispered, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the flour on your cheek. "I wanted them to be impressed. I wanted to show them—"

"Show them what?" Ollie interrupted gently, using his thumb to wipe the tear away. "That you’re talented? They know that. That you work hard? They know that, too. You’ve been feeding us since we were kids, babe. You don't have to prove you belong at a table where you’ve always had a seat."

He rested his chin on top of your head, exhaling a long breath.

"Besides," he added, his tone shifting to that low, teasing warmth that always grounded you. "If you make something too fancy, my dad’s just going to ask where the custard is anyway."

You let out a wet, breathless laugh, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly. "He would. He’d probably ask if we have any vanilla ice cream to melt over it, too."

"Exactly," Ollie grinned, seeing the tension finally leave your shoulders. "You’re stressing yourself out over my family when they literally have the most basic white-people palates in history. I love you, and I don’t like seeing you cry.”

He nudged your knee with his, waiting until the corners of your mouth quirked up properly.

“There she is. There’s my girl," he murmured.

"I think I’m done," you said, brushing some of the crushed meringue off your leggings and wiping the last of the tears from your eyes. The panic was receding, replaced by the steady, grounding warmth of him next to you.

"Good." He stood up first, unfolding his long limbs with a groan, then reached down to pull you up. He didn't let go once you were on your feet; he kept his hands securely on your waist, rubbing smooth circles into your sides with his thumbs. "So, what’s the salvage operation, Chef? Can we glue the sponge back together or something?"

You looked at the disaster on the counter. It looked less like a tragedy now and more like a challenge.

"Whipped cream," you decided, your voice stronger. "I can’t do the ganache without more chocolate, but I have plenty of double cream. We’ll just… smother it. If we cover it in enough and dust it with icing sugar, no one will see the crack.”

“Okay, that’s a plan.” Ollie rolled up the sleeves of his jumper, exposing his forearms. He walked over to the fridge and grabbed the carton of cream. “I’ll start whisking.”

"You know you have to do it by hand, right? I don't want to wake the neighbors with the electric mixer."

"Babe, please." He grabbed the whisk and the bowl, flashing you a cocky, boyish smirk. "I have the best grip strength on the grid. This cream doesn't stand a chance."

For the next twenty minutes, the kitchen transformed. The heavy, suffocating pressure of perfectionism was replaced by chaotic, messy teamwork.

Ollie was a terrible sous-chef, but an excellent distraction. He attacked the cream with unnecessary aggression, complaining halfway through that his arm was burning, but he managed to whip it into soft, billowy peaks.

When it came time to assemble, he hovered behind you, chin resting heavily on your shoulder, watching as you slathered the cream over the broken sponge. You didn't pipe it neatly; you swirled it with a spatula, creating deep, snowy drifts that completely hid the ugly crack down the middle.

"More sugar," Ollie instructed, reaching for the shaker.

"Ollie, that’s too much—"

"It’s a blizzard," he insisted, shaking a massive cloud of powdered sugar over the log until it looked less like a cake and more like an avalanche.

He set the shaker down and stepped back to admire the chaos, dusting his hands off on his sweatpants. You picked up a serrated knife and carefully sliced off the two uneven ends of the log to reveal the spiral inside—standard procedure to make it look neat for tomorrow.

You went to slide the trimmings into the bin, but Ollie’s hand shot out.

"Woah, woah," he said, sounding scandalized. "What are you doing? We don't throw those away. That’s the best bit."

"It's the ugly ends, babe."

"It's quality control," he corrected, grabbing a small plate and rescuing the two messy, cream-slathered slices. "We have to make sure it’s safe for my parents. I’m sacrificing myself for the greater good."

You laughed, the sound easy and light, finally feeling like yourself again. You carefully transferred the main log onto a clean platter and slid it into the fridge to be ready for Christmas dinner tomorrow.

"Alright," you agreed, grabbing two forks. "Quality control it is."

By the time you made it to the living room, the only illumination came from the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. You collapsed onto the sofa, and Ollie immediately pulled you into his side, balancing the plate of cake scraps on his knee.

You took a bite of the offcut. It wasn't the sophisticated, pristine dessert you had planned. The sponge was a little dense where you'd patched it, and the ratio of cream to cake was ridiculous. But it was sweet, light, and tasted like comfort.

"See?" Ollie mumbled around a mouthful. "Tastes like sugar and victory."

He set the empty plate down on the coffee table and pulled you back into the corner of the sofa, tangling his legs with yours. You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The stress of the "perfect holiday" felt miles away. Ollie tightened his arms around you, burying his face in your neck, letting out a long, contented sigh.

"Best cake you've ever made," he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with sleepiness.

"You're biased," you whispered back, running your fingers through his hair.

"Maybe," he grinned, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot below your ear. "But mostly because I helped."

"Satoru," you said slowly. "Why are you wearing that?"

He struck a pose. "I'm going to bake you cookies."

"You... what?"

"Cookies," he repeated, as if that explained everything. "Chocolate chip. From scratch. Because I love you and I want to express my love through the medium of baked goods."

You set down your book. "You know how to bake?"

He grinned — that stupid, beautiful grin. "Of course I do, sweetheart. I'm a man of many talents."

You should have known then.

You really should have.

You followed him into the kitchen, mostly out of curiosity. The counter was already covered in ingredients — flour, sugar, butter, eggs, chocolate chips. A recipe book was open to a page that looked suspiciously clean.

"Have you done this before?" you asked.

"Define 'done this.'"

"Have you ever baked cookies from scratch?"

He paused. "I've watched videos."

"Satoru."

"Videos count as experience!"

You crossed your arms. He ignored you, tying the apron strings tighter and rolling up his sleeves. His forearms were visible. You tried not to stare.

"Okay," he announced, cracking his knuckles. "Let's do this."

The first sign of trouble was the flour.

He poured it into the bowl with great enthusiasm — too much enthusiasm. A white cloud erupted from the mixing bowl, dusting the counter, his apron, and his face.

"You got flour on your nose," you said.

"I meant to do that." He didn't wipe it off. "It's called flair."

"You're going to get flour everywhere."

"Sweetheart, the flour is already everywhere." He gestured grandly at the counter. "Embrace the chaos."

You sighed, but you were smiling.

He measured the sugar wrong — double what the recipe called for — and when you pointed it out, he just shrugged.

"It's love sugar," he said. "Extra sweet. For my extra sweet girlfriend."

"That's not how baking works."

"Baking is an art, not science."

"Baking is literally chemistry, Satoru."

He dipped his finger into the sugar and held it up to your lips. "Taste test?"

You ate the sugar off his finger. He looked delighted.

"See?" he said. "You trust me."

"I trust that you're going to burn down the kitchen."

"Slander."

He added the eggs — too enthusiastically, shells included. You watched him fish the fragments out with his fingers, completely unbothered.

"Most people crack the eggs first," you said.

"Most people are boring."

He stirred the mixture with too much force, splashing batter onto the counter, onto his apron, onto your shirt.

"Satoru!"

"Oops." He did not look sorry. "Clumsy me."

"You're doing this on purpose."

"I have no idea what you mean, sweetheart."

He was grinning. He was absolutely, undeniably, grinning.

The cookies went into the oven.

That's when things got really chaotic.

You weren't sure what temperature he'd set — he'd twisted the dial with great confidence and refused to let you check. Within five minutes, smoke was billowing out of the oven.

"Satoru, the cookies—"

"The cookies are developing character."

"The cookies are on fire."

The smoke alarm went off.

You scrambled for a towel, waving it under the detector while Satoru stood perfectly still, watching you with something that looked suspiciously like adoration.

"Are you just going to stand there?" you yelled.

"You're so cute when you're flustered," he said.

"THE ALARM, SATORU."

He sighed dramatically, reached up, and pressed the silence button on the smoke detector. Then he opened the oven.

Inside were twelve black discs. They were barely recognizable as cookies. They were smoking.

"Perfect," he announced.

"Those are charcoal."

"Those are homemade charcoal. With love."

You stared at him. He stared back, flour on his nose, sugar in his hair, a smear of chocolate on his cheek. He looked absolutely ridiculous. He looked absolutely adorable.

"You did this on purpose," you said.

He didn't deny it. He just smiled — soft, warm, full of love.

"You've been so stressed lately," he said quietly. "Work. Life. Everything. I just wanted to make you laugh."

Your heart melted.

"You set the kitchen on fire to make me laugh?"

"The kitchen is not on fire. The cookies are slightly crispy."

"Baby, they're charcoal."

"Artisanal charcoal."

You laughed — a real laugh, bright and surprised. His face lit up like you'd given him a gift.

"There she is," he whispered. "There's my favorite sound."

You crossed the kitchen and wrapped your arms around his neck, not caring about the flour or the sugar or the smoke still lingering in the air.

"You're ridiculous," you said against his shoulder.

He pulled you closer, his voice soft against your hair. "Ridiculously in love with you. Does that count?"

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were soft, vulnerable, nothing like the confident man who'd walked into the kitchen an hour ago.

"...That's cheating," you whispered.

"Is it working?"

You kissed him instead of answering.

He ordered pizza.

While you waited, he insisted on showing you the "best part" of the baking process.

"There's no best part," you said. "The cookies are ruined."

"The best part isn't the cookies, sweetheart. It's the cleanup."

You watched in disbelief as he grabbed the bag of flour and sprinkled it over both of you — a cloud of white settling on your hair, your shoulders, your nose.

"Satoru—"

"Now we match," he said, grinning. "Flour twins."

"I can't with you sometimes."

He tilted his head, feigning innocence. "And yet you're still here. Curious."

"You're lucky I love you."

"I'm not lucky. I'm blessed."

The pizza arrived twenty minutes later. You ate it on the couch, surrounded by the mess you hadn't cleaned up yet, your head on his shoulder and his hand on your thigh.

"Next time," he said, "I'll bake you cookies that aren't charcoal."

"Next time?"

"There's always a next time, sweetheart."

You looked up at him — at the flour still dusted in his white hair, the chocolate smear on his cheek, the soft smile on his lips.

"Okay," you said. "Next time."

He kissed your forehead.

"Promise."

You woke up to the smell of freshly baked cookies.

Satoru was standing in the kitchen, still in his pajamas, holding a tray of perfect golden-brown chocolate chip cookies. No smoke. No flour cloud. No fire alarm.

"I practiced," he said, sheepish. "After you fell asleep."

You stared at him.

"You stayed up all night... baking cookies?"

"I wanted to get it right." He set the tray on the counter and rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. "For you."

You walked over, plucked a cookie from the tray, and took a bite.

It was perfect.

Soft, warm, melty chocolate, just the right amount of sweet.

"Satoru," you said, your voice soft.

"Yeah?"

You kissed him — slow and sweet and full of love.

"They're perfect," you whispered against his lips.

He grinned — that stupid, beautiful, adorable grin.

"I know," he said. "They're for you."

A/N. HES PRECIOUS !!!! i can already imagine his cute boyish grin that makes ur heart melt UGHHHHHHHHH (┬┬﹏┬┬) also, do you guys like my pun!?!? SDHHSDH