#john walker soft

You toss a pillow at him. He catches it with one hand like he's catching incoming fire, utterly unbothered, which is rude of him.

A beat passes.

His eyes flick to you. "There's a gingerbread house I bought last time my son was here... we could built that."

You blink. "Are you… trying to fight me?"

"I'm trying to save you," he says, solemn as a man delivering a mission briefing. "Before you start narrating your own tragic downfall again."

You sit up. "Okay. Fine. But if it looks like a war crime, I'm blaming you."

John rises from the couch with the purposeful stride of someone about to enter hostile territory. "I'll accept that burden."

He returns from the kitchen with a boxed gingerbread kit tucked under his arm like a field manual. The box is obnoxiously cheerful, all cartoon frosting swirls and perfect little windows. It's so optimistic it feels like it's mocking you.

You take it from him and squint at the picture. "This is a lie."

"It's a goal."

"It's propaganda," you correct, and tear the box open.

Ten minutes later, the coffee table's been converted into a sugar coated construction site. There's a plastic tray. There are brittle gingerbread panels. There's a piping bag filled with icing that looks like it was engineered by someone who hates hands.

John reads the instructions with the intensity of a man disarming a bomb.

"You're taking this way too seriously," you observe.

His eyes don't leave the paper. "I don't lose to baked goods."

You snort. "It's not baked goods. It's… pre baked architecture."

John finally looks up. The way he does it makes your stomach do that little inconvenient flutter like it's trying to get involved. His gaze slides over you, slow and deliberate, and you feel the warmth of it like a hand at your waist.

"Architecture," he repeats. "So you're saying it needs a strong foundation."

You narrow your eyes. "Are you flirting with me over structural integrity?"

"Is it working?"

You lift the icing bag. "I'll decide after I see your piping technique."

His eyebrows jump, and then that grin hits his mouth, quick and dangerous, like it belongs on a man who knows exactly what he's doing with his hands and enjoys the knowledge a little too much.

"Alright," he says, leaning in. "Show me."

You cut the tip of the bag, pinch it between your fingers, and press. A thick ribbon of icing oozes out onto the tray with a sound like defeat.

John watches, his attention sharp. "You're squeezing too hard."

"I'm not squeezing too hard," you argue, squeezing harder out of spite.

The icing slumps like a sad glacier.

John reaches across you without warning, his forearm brushing your wrist. His touch is warm, steady. He guides your hand with quiet confidence, like this is just another drill and you're his trainee who refuses to follow directions.

"Ease up," he murmurs close to your ear. "Let it flow."

Your breath catches on the last word. Your hand does, in fact, relax. The icing line smooths out, neat and glossy.

You glance up at him. "You're enjoying being right."

"I always enjoy being right."

"That's not true."

John's eyes flick to your mouth, and the air turns… different. Not heavy exactly. More like charged. Like the room has decided to pay attention.

"It's mostly true," he amends.

You push the first wall panel into the icing bead and hold it upright. John takes the opposite panel, mirroring you.

For a few seconds you're both still, leaning toward the center, hands steady, faces closer than necessary for baked goods warfare.

It smells like cinnamon and sugar and the kind of quiet you only get when nothing is on fire.

"This is kind of nice," you admit.

John's mouth softens. "Yeah."

Then the wall wobbles.

"Hold it," he orders.

"I am holding it."

"It's leaning."

"It's expressing itself."

John's laugh is low and brief, like he tried to keep it in and failed. "You're making excuses for a gingerbread wall."

"You're yelling at a gingerbread wall."

He shoots you a look. "Focus."

You stick your tongue out at him, which is extremely mature and effective.

He stares for a second, then drops his gaze like he's counting to ten. "Do not make that face at me."

"What face?"

"That one." His voice roughens, just a notch. "The one that says you're about to cause problems."

You smile sweetly. "Me? Never."

"Liar."

The wall steadies. Together you press the pieces into place. John's hand brushes yours, knuckles grazing, and it shouldn't matter. It does anyway.

When the base finally holds, you sit back on your heels and exhale.

John rolls his shoulders like he just survived the final round of a competition. "See? Strong foundation."

You point a finger at him. "Do not turn this into a metaphor."

"I'm not turning it into anything."

"Your eyes are turning it into something."

His eyes flick up, shameless. "Maybe you're projecting."

"You're absolutely projecting," you counter, and reach for the icing bag again.

The roof panels come next. They're heavier than they look, and as soon as you try to set one in place, the walls begin to buckle like they've remembered they're made of cookies.

John braces the house with one hand while you pipe icing along the top edge with the other.

"Careful," he says, and his tone drops, softer. "Don't rush."

"I'm not rushing."

"You're rushing."

You make a face and press harder. The icing spurts out in a rebellious blob that lands on the corner… then arcs, traitorous, toward you.

A fleck smacks your upper lip.

You freeze.

John freezes too.

For a second, the only sound is the faint hum of the refrigerator and your say nothing stare turning into a silent standoff with the universe.

You lift your hand toward your mouth, but John catches your wrist.

"Don't," he says.

You blink at him. "Don't what?"

His gaze locks on your lip like it's a target he's been trained to hit, and suddenly all the playful energy sharpens into something quieter, closer, more dangerous than it has any right to be in a living room full of sprinkles.

"Don't wipe it," he repeats, voice low.

Your throat goes dry. "Why?"

John's mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile and losing. "Because."

"That's not an answer."

His eyes lift, meeting yours, and there's a heat there that makes your spine remember it has nerves. "Because I can't stop thinking about kissing it off."

For once, you don't have a quick comeback ready. Not a smart one, anyway.

Your heart does this ridiculous little thump like it wants to applaud.

You swallow. "John…"

He shifts closer, still holding your wrist, but gentle. Like he's asking without asking. His thumb presses lightly against your pulse point, and it's an unfair reminder that he can feel what you're feeling, can measure it.

Your lips part.

"You're getting distracted," you manage.

His eyes flick to the gingerbread house, held together by sheer will and icing, and then back to you. "Yeah," he says, completely unapologetic. "I am."

You tilt your chin up, daring. "So fix it."

John's expression changes, like something inside him settles. He leans in slowly, giving you time to stop him. You don't.

His mouth brushes yours first, soft, like a question. Then he shifts, precise, and kisses the icing from your lip with a gentle sweep that's somehow both sweet and indecently intimate. The taste of sugar blooms between you, and your hands forget what they were doing.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, close enough that you can feel his breath. "There," he murmurs. "Problem solved."

You stare at him, stunned into silence for half a heartbeat.

Then you lift your free hand, smear a tiny dab of icing on the corner of his mouth, and smile like an angel with a criminal record.

John blinks. "Did you just…"

"Problem created." you say sweetly.

His eyes narrow. "You're dangerous."

"Maybe."

He sets the gingerbread house down with extreme care, like he's placing a fragile artifact back into a museum, then turns fully toward you.

"Alright," he says, voice warm and warning all at once. "Now you're asking for it."

"What am I asking for?" you tease, even though the answer is obvious in the way he looks at you.

John leans in, and this time the kiss isn't a question. It's still gentle, still sweet, but there's a confident hunger to it that makes your breath tangle. He tastes like coffee and sugar and that quiet heat he keeps under control until he doesn't.

Your fingers slide into the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging lightly. He hums against your mouth, hand bracing at your waist, steadying you the way he steadied the walls.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and he exhales like he's amused at himself.

"You know," he murmurs, "we're never finishing that house."

You glance at the cookie structure behind him, now slightly slanted, frosting dripping in a slow surrender. "It's fine."

John's mouth curves. "It's leaning."

"It's expressing itself," you repeat.

He laughs again, low and genuine, then kisses you once more, quick, like punctuation.

"Next weekend," he says, "we do something less dangerous."

You raise an eyebrow. "Less dangerous than gingerbread?"

John's eyes flick to your mouth, lingering like he's filing the memory away for later. "Less dangerous than you with icing."

You nudge his shoulder with yours. "Coward."

He tightens his hand at your waist, pulling you a little closer, and his smile turns softer.

"Yeah," he says, like it's a confession and a promise. "Only around you."