The kitchen smelled like flour and "almost-burnt" sugar.
Leo was currently losing a battle against a batch of snickerdoodles. He had flour on his nose, a smudge of butter on his cheek, and absolutely no idea why the dough looked like wet sand.
"You’re overthinking the baking soda again, aren't you?"
Maya was leaning against the doorframe, wearing one of his oversized flannels and holding two mugs of cocoa. She didn't look like a savior, but to Leo, she was definitely the cavalry.
"The recipe says a teaspoon," Leo muttered, squinting at his phone. "But this is a large bowl. Shouldn't the ratio be exponential? V=
3
4
πr
3
or something?"
Maya laughed, a sound like wind chimes in a breeze, and set the mugs down. She walked over, stepped into his space, and gently took the whisk from his hand. "Leo, it’s a cookie, not a physics mid-term. You don't calculate the sweetness. You just feel it."
She grabbed a pinch of cinnamon and held it under his nose. "Smell that?"
He didn't smell the cinnamon. He was too busy looking at the way the sunlight caught the gold flecks in her eyes. He had known Maya for three years as his best friend, his lab partner, and the person who stole his fries. But in this crowded, messy kitchen, the air suddenly felt thicker.
"Leo?" she prompted, tilting her head.
"Yeah," he breathed. "I feel it."
He reached out, his heart doing a nervous flip-flop, and wiped a speck of flour off her forehead. He didn't pull his hand away. His thumb lingered just a second too long against her temple.
Maya’s breath hitched. The teasing light in her eyes softened into something deeper, something steady. She didn't move back. Instead, she leaned into his touch, her hand coming up to rest over his.
"The cookies are going to be flat," she whispered, her smile small and private.
"I don't care about the cookies," Leo replied, finally finding his courage. "I think I just realized I've been staring at the wrong recipe this whole time."
He leaned down, pausing just long enough for her to close the gap. When their lips met, it didn't taste like cinnamon or sugar—it tasted like coming home.
The oven timer went off, loud and insistent, but for the first time in his life, Leo was perfectly fine with letting something burn.
