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The kitchen had never really been Ice’s territory.
Not because he didn’t know how to function in it—on the contrary, everything he did followed a strict internal logic—but because cooking, according to Maverick, required chaos.
Flour in places it didn’t belong. Sugar sticking to fingers and countertops. Laughing when things went wrong.
Ice preferred control.
Still, there he was.
Wearing an old Navy T-shirt, sleeves carefully rolled up, and a ridiculous apron Maverick had worn for exactly five minutes before handing it over with a grin that promised trouble.
The afternoon sunlight spilled through the window, catching dust motes in the air, making the whole space feel softer than usual.
“Relax, Ice,” Maverick had said, leaning against the counter. “No one’s ever died making cookies.”
Ice had lifted an eyebrow.
“Yet.”
But Maverick wasn’t the real problem.
Orion was.
The black-and-white kitten had decided that the kitchen was now his kingdom.
From the moment the flour bag hit the counter, Orion had planted himself in front of it, staring as if it contained the mysteries of the universe. His ears twitched at every sound.
His eyes tracked the whisk like prey.
Ice noticed immediately.
“No,” he said calmly. “That’s not for you.”
Orion blinked.
Then took one deliberate step closer.
Maverick, standing in the doorway with a mug of coffee, smiled like a man watching an inevitable and adorable disaster.
“I don’t think he’s listening to you, Captain.”
Ice exhaled softly—the kind of sigh only Maverick ever managed to draw out of him.
“I’m aware.”
He kept mixing.
Flour, sugar, butter. Everything measured precisely. Everything under control.
Until he left the bowl unattended for exactly one second.
That was all Orion needed.
The kitten leapt onto the counter with clumsy confidence and, before Ice could react, buried his entire face straight into the bowl.
For a heartbeat, the world froze.
Then Orion lifted his head.
His whiskers were completely white.
His nose dusted with flour. A tiny sneeze escaped him.
Ice stared.
Maverick clamped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
“Oh my God,” he whispered.
Orion shook his head proudly, sending a soft cloud of flour into the air. Some of it landed on Ice’s apron.
The world did not end.
Ice closed his eyes for a brief moment.
Then opened them.
And crouched down slowly.
“Come here,” he said quietly.
Orion didn’t run.
Instead, he padded toward Ice, leaving little white paw prints on the counter.
Ice grabbed a clean towel, dampened one corner, and began wiping with slow, careful movements—almost reverent.
First the whiskers.
Then the nose.
Orion purred.
Something in Maverick’s chest tightened.
Ice didn’t speak much as he worked.
His focus was entirely on the kitten—on not startling him, on cleaning up the mess without scolding or roughness.
“You’re a mess,” Ice murmured, but there was no sharpness in his voice. “A small one.”
Orion answered with a soft meow and placed a paw on Ice’s arm.
Maverick leaned against the wall, completely undone.
He’d seen Ice under real pressure.
In situations where lives were on the line. Always steady. Always controlled.
But nothing—nothing—disarmed him like a flour-covered kitten.
“You know,” Maverick said softly, breaking the silence, “if someone had told me my iciest pilot would spend his Saturday afternoon cleaning flour off a cat…”
Ice glanced up just enough to meet his eyes.
“Do you regret it?”
Maverick shook his head immediately.
“Not for a second.”
He stepped closer, careful not to intrude, and crouched in front of them.
He watched as Ice finished cleaning one ear, as Orion tried to bite the towel like it was a game.
“He’s clean,” Ice finally said.
Orion jumped down and bolted out of the kitchen, leaving behind a lightly dusted counter and a different kind of quiet.
A comfortable one.
Maverick stayed where he was, watching Ice.
Ice raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
Maverick smiled—slow, honest.
“Nothing. Just… I like seeing you like this.”
Ice straightened, set the towel aside, and removed the apron with practiced precision.
“Like what?” he asked.
“At home,” Maverick said.
That stopped Ice.
Just for a second.
Then he stepped closer.
“Come here,” he said.
Maverick did, without hesitation.
Ice brushed a finger across Maverick’s cheek, leaving a faint white streak behind.
“Flour,” Ice explained.
Maverick laughed.
“Knew I’d get involved eventually.”
“You always are.”
Orion reappeared at that moment, hopping onto the couch with a toy in his mouth, completely unconcerned with the chaos he’d caused.
Ice watched him.
“I suppose the cookies can wait.”
Maverick wrapped an arm around him.
“Definitely.”
They left the kitchen behind.
The afternoon stretched on.
And in the air lingered the scent of flour, of warmth, and of something neither of them would’ve known how to name—but both knew they never wanted to lose.