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The fire crackled its soothing melody from the living room—just a hop, skip and a jump from where you stood at the kitchen counter. A brick structure, casting the room in shadows and a warm, golden glow that gave a nostalgic filter to the furniture you’d decorated the room with. All thrifted or inherited or handmade objects with their own stories.
Your sleeves were rolled up past your elbows, a warm crew neck accompanying your favorite, softest pajama pants. A matching set, one you’d seen on sale at a little boutique in Grampleton earlier that Winter. Perfect for Winter Star, you’d thought, unable to wipe the delighted smirk off your face as you found both your size and hers. You’d never been able to do the whole matching jammies thing with other partners before.
Her. Leah. The gorgeous, radiant, utterly magnificent woman you’d been able to call your girlfriend since the beginning of Fall. The one currently standing next to you at the counter, carefully folding the flour into Banana Bread batter. She wasn’t one for carbs or sweets usually, but in the last two years you’d known each other, you’d come to find the only exception to that rule—sourdough.
You’d been making it since you moved to Pelican Town. Your grandmother had an established starter, kept alive after her death in your own kitchen in the city. After moving to the farm, you’d started to experiment with different recipes. The standard loaves, inclusions mixed in for an upcharge. Discard recipes. Making usually indulgent baked goods into something gut healthy. At least, that was what all of the recipe websites told you. And you weren’t going to disagree with that.
You’d gifted Leah a loaf of banana bread made with your sourdough starter before. When you were still just friends—dancing around the clear attraction between the two of you. And after that, too. More often than not, you were sharing your new experiments with her. Sourdough recipes. Stirfries. Bottles of wine. Homemade cheeses. In return, you’d gained friendship and a little flutter in your chest whenever you’d spend time together in your cabin or hers.
You never expected her to feel the same for you.
And yet, there you were. Teaching her your oh so secret sourdough banana bread recipe in your kitchen, in matching pajamas on the eve of Love Day.
Winter was coming to an end soon. The days were beginning to get longer and longer. Nonetheless, the clock ticked past midnight before you and your love found the will to pause the cheesy rom com channel you’d put on hours before. Glasses of wine abandoned on the coffee table. The cat immediately curled up in the spot the two of you were cuddled up on, snoring entirely too loudly for such a little creature.
You squinted down at the recipe card on the counter, the familiar slant of your handwriting curled across the lines on the cardstock. Thick paper decorated with florals, yellowing and frayed ever so slightly at the edges from age. The recipe a Frankenstein of different versions you’d found on the internet and tweaked until just right. The card had a home in a tin box, along with hand written recipes from your grandmother, and a few you’d added in the last two, almost three years.
Leah leaned in behind you to read it too, close enough that you could feel the warmth of her body through the thick fabric of your crewneck. You barely had time to register it before the sound of your gasp filled the kitchen, a sound that caused the cat to raise her head from the couch cushions. Her hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers cold from the winter air seeping through the cabin walls as they grazed your skin.
“Leah!” You laugh, startled, but she just pressed her palms flat against your stomach, utterly unapologetic as she nuzzled her nose into the side of your head.
“Your fault,” she murmured against your ear, amused. “You’re warm.”
She didn’t move them right away. Just let them rest there, fingers flexing slightly as she read over your shoulder, like this was the most natural thing in the world.
Like she belonged there. And maybe she did.
Her hands warming against the skin of your hips, your head leaning back against her shoulder with a pleased hum. Leah pressed a kiss to the side of your neck, humming softly against the skin as she whispered, “Honey.”
You hummed in response, eyes fluttering closed as her teeth grazed against the junction of your shoulder.
“No, silly,” She chuckled, finally releasing her hands from your skin (not without pressing her lips to your temple first), scooting over to open the cabinet to your right. “We need to put honey in the batter.”
You blinked rapidly, back suddenly cold in her absence. “Measure with your heart,” You giggled as she popped open the jar of sunflower honey you’d harvested that Fall. “Like with vanilla.”
Leah twisted the lid back onto the honey jar, setting it aside before scanning the counter. Her brow furrowed slightly in that way it always did when she was concentrating. Soft. Thoughtful. Utterly endearing.
“Milk?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“In the fridge,” you replied easily, turning back to the cutting board on the counter to chop a bar of dark chocolate into uneven chunks. The scent was already sweet, warm and comforting from the earlier mashed bananas, filling the kitchen as the fire continued its steady crackle in the other room. The chocolate added a bit of bitterness to the air, yet it wasn’t anything harsh. Comforting, maybe. Something that would become nostalgic years later, standing in this same spot, doing this same exact thing.
You heard the fridge open behind you, the familiar hum joining the quiet symphony of the house. Cold air brushed the backs of your ankles as warm, golden light spilled across the floorboards, stretching long shadows up the cabinets.
Then, Leah’s voice accompanied the static hum. “Hey,” Leah called softly. You could hear the content smirk on her lips, see the flush spread across her cheeks before you even turned.
You glanced over your shoulder. She was standing there with the fridge door open, one hand braced against it, the other holding the carton loosely at her side. The light caught in her hair, auburn strands frizzing out of the braid hanging over her shoulder and haloing her face as they glowed in the refrigerator light. Like she’d been painted that way on purpose.
“Dance with me?” she asked, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
Your heart did that stupid, fluttery thing it always did when she looked at you like that. Like you were the most precious thing in the world. Like she wanted to do all of the mundane, little things with you for the rest of your lives. Like making banana bread at midnight and dancing on the kitchen tile.
You set the knife down without a word and crossed the kitchen, slipping easily into the space she made for you. The fridge door stayed open, bathing the two of you in soft, warm light as her free hand found your waist—still chilly, but you didn’t mind. Not as her fingers curled into the fabric of your crewneck as she pulled your body flush against hers.
There was no music. Just the hum of the refrigerator, the distant pop of the fire, and the quiet rhythm of her breath as you swayed together, slow and unhurried. Your forehead rested against hers, noses brushing as you smiled without even realizing it.
“This is my favorite part of the recipe,” she murmured, pressing her lips against the tip of your nose.
You laughed quietly. “The milk?”
“No,” Leah said, squeezing your waist just a little tighter. “This.”
As if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it was.
And for a moment, just one, you let yourself believe that maybe love could be this simple. A kitchen at midnight. Banana bread in the oven. The woman you loved holding you in the glow of the fridge light, like nowhere else in the world existed.