He chuckles softly—the sound rare and precious, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds—and presses a kiss to the top of my head. His arms tighten around me, one hand stroking slowly up and down my back, the other cradling my head like I’m something sacred.
We stay like that for a while—him leaning against the counter, me wrapped around him, the scent of cinnamon and apples filling the kitchen like a promise. The muffins bake in the oven behind us, golden and rising.
Small things.
But they feel like everything.
When the timer goes off, he doesn’t let me go right away. He just holds me tighter and murmurs against my hair, “I’m still here. Because of you.”
I smile into his chest, heart so full it hurts in the best way—full of love so fierce and tender it feels like it could heal every wound we’ve both carried.
He presses one last kiss to the top of my head beforegently guiding me to sit on one of the stools at the counter. His hands linger on my waist for a moment, like he needs the contact, then he turns to the oven.
I watch him pull out the tray with careful, steady hands. The muffins are golden and perfectly domed, the tops cracked just the way they’re supposed to be. The scent is everything I’ve been chasing for months.
He sets the tray on a cooling rack, then picks up one that’s already cooled enough. He turns back to me, eyes soft, and holds it out like an offering.
I take it with trembling fingers.
The first bite is everything.
Warm, tender crumb. The perfect balance of sweet apple and fragrant cinnamon. The top has that slight crispness I could never quite achieve, the bottom is golden and just right. It melts on my tongue, comforting and familiar andrightin a way none of my attempts ever were.
I taste months of failure in that one perfect bite—all the sunken centers, the dense texture, the quiet desperation in my kitchen while I tried to bake my way out of fear. And now, here it is. Perfect. Because he made it for me.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper, a wave of emotion crashing into me. “I’m going to cry,” I half laugh, half sob. “Over fucking muffins.”
He smiles. And dear God, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
It’s small at first—just the corner of his mouth lifting, tentative, like he’s still learning how to do it again. But then it deepens, slow and real, crinkling the corners of his winter-blue eyes and softening the harsh lines of his scar. That smile carries every quiet battle he’s won tonight. Everypiece of himself he’s fighting to give back to me. It’s vulnerable and strong and so full of love that it steals the air from my lungs.
My heart clenches so hard it hurts.
This man—this beautiful, broken, fierce man—is smiling at me in the middle of the night because he baked me muffins and it’s perfect and it’s mine and he knew exactly what I needed even though he’s the one struggling through broken pieces.
Tears spill over freely now, hot and unstoppable. I set the muffin down and reach for him, pulling him close until I can bury my face in his neck.
His arms wrap around me instantly, one hand cradling the back of my head like I’m something fragile and infinitely precious. I feel the rumble of his low chuckle against my cheek.
“It’s just muffins, Sophia.”
“It’s not just muffins,” I say fiercely, pulling back just enough to look at him. My thumbs trace his jaw, his scar, the curve of that rare, devastating smile. “It’s you. You big, scary, secretly-soft cinnamon-roll assassin. You noticed I was failing at something stupid and small, and instead of telling me it didn’t matter, you got up in the middle of the night and fixed it for me. That’s the sexiest, most romantic thing anyone has ever done. I’m genuinely turned on by baked goods right now. This is your fault.”
He lets out a surprised laugh—real, warm, and so damn beautiful it makes fresh tears slip down my cheeks. The sound vibrates through his chest and into mine, and I swear I fall in love with him all over again.
“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs, eyes shining withamusement and something deeper, something that looks a lot like forever.
“I’m in love,” I correct, leaning in to kiss the corner of that smile. “There’s a difference.”
25
RETH
Ian's in the hallway when I come out of the bedroom.
“The whole fucking forest around us knows you two kissed and made up.”
I close the door behind me with a soft click, jaw already tight.
