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It’s supposed to be a peaceful Saturday morning. And for the most part, it is—until Steve Rogers wanders into the kitchen like some golden retriever fresh from a jog.
You’re in an oversized t-shirt (his, technically), hair a mess, humming some half-remembered tune while measuring flour. Sunlight filters through the windows, painting everything gold. You’re barefoot, focused, radiating a kind of domestic calm that makes him go still in the doorway.
“You—” He clears his throat, eyes wide. “You’re dangerous looking like that first thing in the morning.”
You glance up, smirking. “Dangerous how?”
“Tempting,” he says, like it’s obvious. “And you’re making cookies? Unfair.”
“Get in here and help me, drama queen.”
He grins and steps forward, brimming with enthusiasm and zero actual baking skill. “I used to help my ma bake in Brooklyn.”
That line lasts about thirty seconds before he dumps salt into the sugar bowl, misreads teaspoons for tablespoons, and somehow manages to get flour on the ceiling. You’re laughing too hard to be mad, wrestling the mixing bowl away from him while he looks absolutely delighted with himself.
“You’re a menace,” you say between giggles.
“And you look hot when you’re bossing me around,” he shoots back, shameless as he dips a finger into the dough and licks it. “Is cookie dough supposed to be this sexy?”
“Stop flirting with the ingredients.”
“I was flirting with the baker.”
You roll your eyes and swat his chest with a spatula, instantly regretting it when he grabs the flour bag with that mischievous glint in his eye.
“Steve, don’t you dare—”
Too late. A cloud of flour explodes across the kitchen.
Shrieking, breathless laughter echoes off the walls as the two of you chase each other around the counter. You finally pin him against the fridge, both of you covered head to toe in white dust. He’s laughing too hard to breathe, and you press a kiss to his cheek just as he murmurs, “Truce?”
You pretend to consider it, then swipe a line of frosting across his nose. “Only if you stop seducing the cookie dough.”
“Deal. No promises about you, though.”
Somehow, miraculously, the cookies make it into the oven—lopsided, a little overmixed, slightly burned at the edges. They smell like victory anyway.
Later, you’re curled up on the couch together, a plate of warm cookies balanced on Steve’s stomach. His head rests in your lap, one arm lazily thrown around your waist, thumb tracing soft shapes into your side. You play with his hair, still dusted with flour, as he talks about nothing in particular—old neighborhood bakeries, his ma’s humming, the way certain smells make memories feel closer.
You listen, not really to the words, but to the warmth in his voice. The easy way he’s breathing. The rare comfort he lets himself sink into when he’s with you.
He looks up at you with a sleepy, crooked smile. “Thanks for letting me ruin your morning.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” you say, gentle and honest. “You made it better.”
And he believes you—because this, right here, is the kind of peace he never thought he’d have. Messy and soft and real.
Not perfect. But yours.