She says there’s a right way to crack an egg one-handed, and her demonstration is both confident and wrong. The shell crumbles. The yolk races across the counter like a toddler spotting freedom. She laughs without remorse as he catches it in cupped palms. He bows like a showman. Flour swirls in the air.

Their kitchen is too small for two people. They belong in it.

She watched a video at three in the morning and woke him whispering: “Wanna do this together?” He mumbled yes, hoping for a quick return to sleep.
Now he hums while measuring sugar; the oven’s warmth replaces the bed’s comfort. She matches him.
The whisk taps against the pot as butter unfurls into the water like golden petals.

“Big spoon for the flour dump,” she commands. He chooses the chipped wooden one. He dumps the flour in one go and works the spoon like he’s rowing a boat they both live on. The paste smooths, steam embraces his face. She jokes about arm day. He demands a shoulder massage later. More flour finds places it doesn’t belong as she salutes in response.

The oven door looks solid enough; if he put his weight on it, would it hold? Probably. He beats a brief rhythm with his fingers, checking heat. “Too soon,” he says. She nods.

They cool the dough.
She passes him eggs like a nurse handing over instruments. He cracks, beats; they watch the dough go glossy as it drinks them. She tries to lick batter off his finger, but he stops her. “Careful. Raw eggs.”
“So, this is shoe paste?” she asks, smiling.
“Choux,” he responds. “Also, that was terrible.”

She clamps his mouth shut, flouring his jaw. He frees himself and plants a kiss on her forehead. A ghost of white transfers to her. He looks pleased.

While the dough rests, she pulls out wrapped butter-cookie dough from the fridge—their original plan for the day. He insists on making heart shapes. She takes the plain circle, presses it over one of his hearts. “Oh no, you broke my heart,” he wails. “I demand recompense. All the cookies are mine!”
She grabs the sieve and flings powdered sugar at him. They laugh because they like laughing.

She’d be fine without him—steady. Like the oven’s fan that keeps turning.

The piping bag is a zip-top bag with a corner snipped off. He holds the bowl, ready to refill.
He whispers, “Squeeze gently now,” like they’re defusing a bomb. She’s better with small details than he is. She pipes neat spirals, leaving space because the video said they’ll swell. He leans close; she bumps him back with her hip. Hot air escapes when the tray slides in; the apartment takes a collective breath. “Set the timer for twenty-five,” he says. No reply comes; she steals a strawberry.

He slices strawberries for the filling. If he cut his finger now, would she notice the different kind of red? Probably not; she’s busy stealing berry cut-offs. He pretends to scold, but secretly likes the sight of her lips sucking in the sweet bits.

“We should bring the basil in before nights get cold,” he says, nodding toward the balcony. “And put up those lights.”
“Tonight,” she says. “We also still have to do our end-of-summer picnic. Leaves are starting to turn yellow.”
“Could do next weekend. Should we invite others?” he responds.

The timer hits zero. Heat blooms out as she opens the door. Their faces go warm. Puffs out, cookies in. The puffs are golden exactly as promised, each risen with a hollow center ready to hold a berry. They both make small sounds of happiness. Things are as they should be. She pecks his cheek and starts the filling. They work messily, hunger outruns patience. She dusts sugar theatrically. He applauds, inhales powdered sugar, coughs; they laugh.

They share a bite. She leans into his embrace. Cold cream in a warm shell. He closes his eyes; his cheek lifts into a smile against her hair.

“You are amazing,” he says, his mouth to her mouth. Sugar sticks to his lips, then hers. They lean on the counter together, silent except for the continued crackling of the oven.

He thinks about the basil and the lights and the picnic and friends, about Saturday mornings when the sun hits the table and the red vase floods the room in color. If he didn’t wake up one day, would the plants get watered? She would absolutely water them. She’s steady. She’d talk to them like she talks to the shelter dogs they visit.

She leans close. Tells him there’s sugar on his jaw, kisses it off. He loves the way she does things like this—casual affection. Like breathing.
He loves her more than sleep, more than hot showers on cold days, more than sweet cream puffs in the early morning. He hopes she knows.

If he jumped from the balcony, he’d have to aim past the downstairs neighbor’s hedges. They might break the fall, and surviving would be worse.

“Oh—the cookies are ready,” he says, reaching for the mitts.