“Here,” Nate says, placing his hands over mine.
He doesn’t take over, just steadies. His fingers press lightly at my wrists, guiding the angle, adjusting the pressure. His chest brushes my back when he leans in, solid and warm, and suddenly, I’m very aware of how close he is.
“Gentler,” he murmurs, near my ear.
I try. I really do. The whole side caves in. We both go still for half a second, staring at it. Then I laugh, breathless and a little helpless.
“It’s worse,” I say.
Nate digs two fingers into the cake and scoops out a piece, popping it in his mouth. He hums. “I don’t know. Taste is better than other times, I’d say we’re improving.”
I hold his gaze for a minute before breaking out in a heap of laughter that racks not just my body but also his, then a matching laugh bubbles out of him.
“I love you,” I whisper. “Even if your architectural sight doesn’t translate to baking.”
“Depends on your perspective.”
“Your perspective is wrong.”
His mouth twitches. “My kitchen.”
“Your kitchen is currently a crime scene.”
I gesture vaguely at the counters, the mess, the leaning, slightly tragic version of a Chicago landmark sitting between us.
He glances around, then back at me. “Worth it.”
Something in the way he says it lands in my chest. That small shift, the quiet settling of something warm and unexpected. His hands are still at my waist, not guiding. Holding me in because I belong there.
I don’t realize I’ve leaned in until my forehead brushes his nose. There’s powdered sugar on his shirt. A streak of icing near his collarbone. I reach up without thinking and swipe at it with my thumb, but it only smears.
“You’re making it worse,” he says, but he doesn’t move away.
“Shut up,” I murmur, softer now.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and he glides his palm higher up my back.
I close the distance between us. The kiss is soft, mostly nips and pecks. His mouth is warm and familiar in an addictive way that makes my chest ache. I wrap my fist around his shirt, bunching the fabric between my fingers,pulling him closer as he deepens the kiss. The counter digs into my hip when he leans into me, but I don’t care.
He pecks my lips and looks into my eyes. “I can’t with the kitchen like this, Robyn. Worth making the mess, not leaving it.” It comes out husky but also amused.
“Then let’s do some cleaning.” I wink. “We can pick this up later,” I say. Nate wouldn’t be Nate without his cleaning obsession.
We get into the rhythm of it, picking up dirty bowls, washing measuring cups, and wiping counters. As we clean, we fall into a casual conversation. It’s right and it’sus.
Until my work phone goes off with an insistent, sharp ping. I glance at the clock. I still have two more hours before I even have to leave for my shift, and I’m not on call. But the ping keeps going.
Nate stops, his chest rising and falling quicker with every breath. The phone keeps ringing.
“Just check what’s up,” he says.
The call is brief. She’s a patient we’ve discussed in the diagnostics program—recurring dizzy spells, no clear cause, no pattern that holds. They want a consult when I come in a few hours. Except I don’t want to wait three hours, I want to be there now.
“I have to go,” I say as soon as I hang up, wiping my hands on a dish towel before dropping it on the counter. Stepping around the island, I scan for my bag, my phone, anything I’ve misplaced in the mess we made.
“What do you mean?” Nate asks. “You’re not even on call.”
“I know.” I grab my bag from the chair, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear, already halfway to the hallway before I stop and turn back to him. “Nate—someone’s been having dizzy spells. They still can’t figure out why.”
