The door clicked shut, sealing out the wind, and Ben leaned against it for a split second, exhaling a cloud of steam that was slowly fading.

Girlfriend.

The word had slipped out with zero fanfare, just tumbled into the cold air between "paramedics" and "pinecone." He hadn't planned it. He hadn't workshopped it in the shower or written it down on a napkin to test the weight of it. It had just… happened. Like a reflex. Like his brain had already updated the software and forgot to send the memo to his mouth.

He braced himself, waiting for the flinch. Waiting for the "whoa, slow down" look. But she was already on the floor, arranging sticks like she was conducting a symphony, muttering about paper bags.

He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, a small, lopsided grin taking over his face.

She didn't run.

"Right," he muttered to the empty hallway as she disappeared into the bedroom. "Cool. We're doing that. I can work with that."

He peeled the damp towel from his waist, doing a quick, shivering dry-off before grabbing the pile of clothes he’d left on the dryer earlier. He pulled on a pair of soft, heather-grey sweatpants and a matching oversized hoodie, instantly transforming into a walking, comfortable storm cloud. He ran a hand through his damp hair, which was currently doing its best impression of a mad scientist, and decided to just let it be. It was a look. Probably.

He padded into the kitchen, the floorboards cold even through his socks.

He filled the biggest pot he could find with water, cranking the burner to high. He wasn't kidding about the pasta. He had two boxes of rigatoni, a jar of sauce that claimed to be "artisanal," and a block of parmesan he intended to grate until his arm fell off.

He was just dumping the pasta into the rolling boil—steam billowing up into his face—when he heard her.

“...or am I about to commit a crime with a steak knife?”

Ben froze, the wooden spoon paused mid-stir.

"Absolutely not," he said to the steam. "Nope. Vetoed immediately."

He knew Cleo. He knew her hands were steady when she held a paintbrush, but put a kitchen utensil in her hand during a creative fugue state, and she became a liability.

He abandoned the pasta and went straight for the junk drawer—the one every rental cabin in the history of the world possessed. He rattled through three dead batteries, a takeout menu from 2014, and a roll of duct tape until his fingers closed around the orange handles of a pair of safety scissors.

"Armed and dangerous," he announced, walking into the living room.

He stopped in the doorway, the scissors held up like a peace offering.

The scene before him was... actually kind of impressive. She had vases, pinecones, and red fabric strewn about, and she was sitting in the middle of it looking like a chaotic forest nymph who had broken into a Crate & Barrel.

"I am officially intervening," he said, walking over and crouching down beside her. He plucked the steak knife she had somehow already located from her hand and replaced it with the scissors. "We are not doing emergency stitches tonight, babe. I don't care how good the centerpiece looks, I need all ten of your fingers intact for the holding-my-hand part of the evening."

He stayed crouched there for a second, resting his elbows on his knees, watching her work with an amused, affectionate smirk.

"You realize this is way too classy for rigatoni, right?" he teased, nodding at the arrangement. "I feel like I should be serving pheasant under glass. Or at least wearing a tie."

He reached out, tugging gently on a loose strand of her damp hair.

"You good? You need anything else from the kitchen before I go battle the steam again? A glue gun? A chainsaw?"

Cleo barely looked up when he appeared with the scissors, already knee-deep in her own momentum.

She glanced at the orange handles, then at his face, then back to the mess in front of her, a grin tugging at her mouth like she’d been caught doing something she absolutely intended to keep doing.

“Thank you,” she said, genuinely, taking the scissors from him without ceremony. “You just saved at least one fingertip and whatever dignity I had left.”

She set the steak knife aside like it had offended her personally and went right back to work, spreading the runner flat on the floor in front of the fire. The heat was starting to thaw her skin, her cheeks still pink from the cold, hair damp and curling at the ends. She shifted, cross-legged now, and reached for the red silk pajamas.

When he teased about the rigatoni, she huffed a quiet laugh through her nose, eyes still focused as she lined up the fabric.

“Listen,” she said, calm and completely serious, “presentation matters. Even if the food is… aggressively humble.”

She snipped into the silk with careful, deliberate cuts, not rushing it, the fabric sliding cleanly under the blades. She didn’t look at him when he mentioned chainsaws—just kept cutting, unfazed.

“Just don’t overcook them,” she said lightly. “I won’t eat them.”

She adjusted one of the branches, propping it against the vase, then trimmed another strip of fabric, shorter this time. Her movements were sure, grounded. The spiral she’d been flirting with earlier was gone. Replaced with focus. With purpose.

When he tugged her hair, she finally tilted her head back just enough to look at him, eyes warm and steady.

“I’m good,” she said softly. “Really good.”

Then, quieter, more honest—
“And this is fun. Let me have this.”

She went back to work, threading the silk through the branches, red against green against glass, something simple turning unexpectedly beautiful under her hands.

After a beat, she added, almost as an afterthought—

“If you see smoke, yell. Otherwise, I trust you.”

Cleo shifted closer to the fire, the warmth finally sinking into her bones as she worked. She pinched the silk between her fingers, tugging it just enough to get the drape right, head tilted to the side in concentration. The very tip of her tongue slipped out between her lips without her noticing—a habit she’d had forever, one that only showed up when she was fully absorbed.

She adjusted one pinecone, didn’t like it, adjusted it again. Better.

Her brows knit, tongue still out, as she looped the red fabric around the neck of the glass, tying it once, then undoing it immediately with a quiet, dissatisfied hum. She leaned back, squinted at the whole thing like it might argue with her, then leaned forward again, determined to win.

“This part matters,” she muttered to herself, more to the arrangement than to anyone else. “If it looks accidental, it has to actually be intentional.”

She snipped one last thin strip, precise, careful, then threaded it through the branches, fingers steady now. The tongue disappeared as she exhaled, a small smile flickering when it finally looked right.

She sat back on her heels, studying it, then reached forward to nudge one berry cluster just a fraction of an inch.

Perfect.

Without looking toward the kitchen, she called out casually, voice warm and grounded, like everything inside her had settled into place—

“How we doin’ over there, chef? Pasta still alive?”

He lingered in the doorway for a second longer than necessary, just watching her.

She was doing that thing—the thing where the tip of her tongue poked out between her lips because her brain was running at absolute maximum capacity. It was a detail he’d clocked about three weeks into knowing her, usually reserved for difficult chord progressions or tricky shading on a canvas. Seeing it directed at a pinecone and a pair of silk pajamas made his chest do a weird, warm flip-flop that he absolutely wasn't going to acknowledge out loud.

"Intentional," he whispered to himself, grinning as he turned back to the kitchen. "Right."
He walked back into the steam cloud, the bubbling pot of water serving as a harsh reality check.

"Aggressively humble," he muttered, eyeing the jar of tomato sauce with deep suspicion. The label featured a drawing of a smiling nonna who looked like she was judging him. "Alright, Nonna. Don't look at me like that. We're gonna fix it."

If Cleo was out there creating the Louvre of centerpieces, he couldn't just serve up boiled carbs and red sludge. He needed to elevate. He needed to pivot.

He opened the fridge, scanning the contents like he was defusing a bomb.

Beer. Leftover pizza. Water. A lemon that had seen better days.

"Come on," he hissed, shifting a carton of eggs.

Jackpot.

Way in the back, tucked behind a jar of pickles, was a stick of butter—real, salted butter—and a half-pint of heavy cream that he must have bought for coffee and immediately forgotten about.

He grabbed them both. He slammed the butter onto the counter and pivoted to the spice rack. It was a rental cabin spice rack, which meant it was a graveyard of expired seasonings, but he dug until he found garlic powder and a shaker of crushed red pepper flakes.

"We’re in business," he announced to the empty room.

He drained the pasta, saving a mugful of the starchy water because he’d seen a guy do it on TikTok once and he was pretty sure that was the secret to a Michelin star. He dumped the pasta back in the pot, threw in a knob of butter the size of his fist, and cranked the heat.

"Sizzle for me," he encouraged, tossing the noodles.

In went the "artisanal" sauce. In went a splash of the heavy cream to turn it a rich, dangerous orange. In went enough garlic powder to ward off vampires for a three-county radius and a generous shake of the red pepper.

He grabbed the block of parmesan and the grater, attacking the cheese with a fervor that bordered on violent. He grated until a snowy mountain of cheese began to melt into the sauce, thickening it, making it glossy and rich.

He stirred it vigorously, dipping a wooden spoon in to take a taste test.

It burned his tongue, was probably 90% cholesterol, and tasted incredible.
"Oh, yeah," he grinned, pointing the spoon at the pot. "You are no longer humble. You are arrogant. You are a pasta with an ego."

Just as he was contemplating whether adding the sad lemon zest would be genius or a disaster, her voice floated in from the living room.

“How we doin’ over there, chef? Pasta still alive?”

Ben laughed, grabbing two bowls from the cupboard.

"Alive?" he called back, scooping a massive portion into the first bowl. "Babe, this pasta is thriving. It’s undergoing a spiritual awakening. It’s basically the pasta version of me in a hot tub."

He wiped the rim of the bowl with a paper towel—presentation, dammit—and leaned against the counter, feeling ridiculously pleased with himself.

"Just warning you," he shouted, grabbing two forks. "I found butter and I wasn't afraid to use it. If you hear my arteries hardening, just turn up the music."

Cleo appeared in the kitchen doorway a second later, arms full and careful, carrying the centerpiece like it was fragile evidence of a crime scene she was very proud of committing.

She’d changed—barely. An oversized sweater swallowed her shoulders, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs, hair still damp and loose now, curling softly around her face. Her cheeks were pink from the fire and the cold and the sprint back inside, eyes bright in a way that made the whole room feel warmer just by her standing in it.

She set the centerpiece down in the middle of the table with deliberate care, nudging one pinecone, rotating a branch, then finally stepping back to assess it like a curator.

Only then did she turn her attention to him.

Or rather—to the pot.

Her brows lifted slowly as she crossed the kitchen, peering into the steam with open suspicion the moment he said butter. She leaned over his shoulder, close enough that her sweater brushed his arm, inhaling deeply.

“Oh,” she said, dragging the word out. “You definitely found butter.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully as she watched the sauce cling thickly to the noodles, glossy and unapologetic.

“…Ben.”

She glanced up at him, one eyebrow arching in a way that meant she already knew the answer.

“Did you—” she pointed at the pot with one finger, “—add the whole bar again?”

Her mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile. She reached for the spoon without asking, blew on it once, then tasted. Her eyes fluttered shut for half a second despite herself.

“Okay,” she conceded quietly, swallowing. “That’s… really good. Like dangerous good.”

She shot him a look then—half impressed, half mock-accusatory.

“You realize I made something that belongs on a woodland magazine cover,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the table, “and you responded by making a sauce that could end a bloodline.”

She nudged his hip gently with hers, staying close, inspecting the pot again like she might catch it misbehaving.

“But,” she added, softer now, warmth threading through her voice, “if this is you ‘thriving,’ I’m not mad about it.”

She set the spoon back down, fingers brushing his as she did.

“Just… next time,” she said lightly, eyes flicking up to meet his, “warn me before you unleash dairy-based chaos. I like to emotionally prepare.”

Cleo didn’t hesitate.

She stepped closer, toes lifting so she was balanced on the balls of her feet, arms sliding easily up around his neck. Her sweater brushed his chest, warmth to warmth, her fingers curling at the nape of his neck like they already belonged there.

She looked up at him, eyes soft and bright, lips already curving into a smile.

“Kiss,” she said simply, like it was the most natural request in the world.

Then she puckered dramatically—over-the-top, playful, absolutely impossible to ignore—holding it there just long enough to make him laugh before leaning in that last inch herself, meeting him halfway.

He looked at her standing there—drowning in a sweater that was definitely too big for her, hair wild and damp, smelling like winter air and his own expensive shampoo—and felt a surge of affection so strong it actually knocked the wind out of him for a second.
When she accused him of using the whole bar of butter, he didn't even blink.

"Allegedly," he drawled, leaning back against the counter with a shamelessly smug grin. "I refuse to answer that question without legal counsel. But I will say that French cooking is ninety percent butter and ten percent spite, and I am merely respecting the culinary arts."

He watched her taste it, saw her eyes flutter shut, and felt a victory swell in his chest that was disproportionate to the task of boiling pasta.

"See?" he teased, nudging her back. "Emotional preparation is overrated. Sometimes you just have to let the cholesterol take the wheel."

But then she stepped in close.

The shift was instantaneous. The kitchen, the steam, the bubbling pot—it all blurred into the background. All that mattered was the feel of her sweater brushing against his hoodie and her hands sliding up his neck.

When she said “Kiss” and did that ridiculous, over-the-top pucker, Ben let out a laugh—a genuine, startled burst of sound that vibrated in his chest.

"You are ridiculous," he murmured, shaking his head.

He didn't make her wait. He slid his arms around her waist, his hands slipping under the hem of her sweater to find the warm, soft skin of her lower back. He pulled her flush against him, enjoying the way she fit, the way she always fit.

He leaned down, pressing a quick, teasing peck to her puckered lips first, just to be annoying, before tilting his head and kissing her for real.

It was slow and sweet, tasting faintly of the tomato sauce she’d just sampled and the peppermint tea she’d been drinking earlier. He hummed against her mouth, a low sound of contentment, holding her there for a long moment, letting the domesticity of it settle over him like a warm blanket.

"Bossy," he whispered against her lips when he finally pulled back, though his eyes were dancing with delight. "I like it. Keep that energy."

He kept one arm around her waist, turning them both toward the table where her masterpiece sat.

"Okay, let’s eat before the 'bloodline-ending' sauce congeals," he said, grabbing the two bowls with his free hand. He walked her over to the table, setting the food down next to the arrangement of pinecones and red silk.

He took a step back, admiring the tableau. The contrast was hilarious and perfect. Two bowls of aggressively orange pasta, a centerpiece worthy of a wedding magazine, and the two of them standing there in sweatpants.

"We look like we're about to have a very romantic, very chic séance," he commented, pulling out a chair for her with a flourish. "Madame Cleo, your table is ready. Please try not to get sauce on the silk, or we’ll have to explain to the dry cleaners why our pajamas smell like garlic."

Cleo laughed when he went full fake-lawyer about the butter, shaking her head as she leaned her hip against the counter.

“Allegedly?” she echoed, squinting at him like a detective in a cozy mystery. “Ben, if my arteries start sending me hate mail tomorrow, I’m forwarding it straight to you.”

She dipped the spoon again anyway, because she had zero self-control, and when the flavor hit she let out a soft, pleased hum. Her shoulders relaxed, tension melting right out of her.

“Okay,” she admitted, pointing the spoon at him. “Fine. You win. This is stupid good. But if I die young, tell my story.”

When she stepped closer, sweater brushing his hoodie, she couldn’t help the grin spreading across her face at how fast his attention snapped to her. She reached up, hands resting around his neck, rising slightly on her toes.

“You’re obsessed,” she teased softly, eyes warm. “With butter. With dramatic pasta. With proving yourself.”

She let out a small laugh when he reacted, shaking her head.

“And yeah,” she added, smirking, “I kinda love that about you.”

When he guided her toward the table, she went willingly, still half tucked into his side. The room felt softer now—fire crackling, pasta steaming, her ridiculous woodland centerpiece glowing in the flicker of orange light. The red silk caught the firelight like embers, glass jars throwing tiny reflections onto the ceiling.

She laughed at his séance comment, dropping into the chair he pulled out for her.

“Honestly,” she said, tucking one leg under herself, sweater pooling around her thighs, “if a ghost shows up, that’s on you. You brought the drama pasta.”

She watched him sit across from her, eyes bright, hair still a little wild from the hot tub, and felt that quiet swell of affection again. This. Them. Sweatpants, firelight, too much butter, handmade chaos on the table.

“Thank you,” she added softly. “For dinner. For… all of it.”

Then she grabbed her fork, twirling pasta like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Now eat, rockstar,” she smiled. “Before it does congeal and we actually summon something.”

He watched her tuck her leg under herself—a move that looked equal parts comfortable and physically impossible—and felt that same warm, steady thrum in his chest.

"If a ghost shows up," Ben said around a mouthful of pasta, pointing his fork at her, "I’m offering him a plate. I feel like the undead don't get enough garlic in their diet. It’s sad, really."

He chewed, swallowed, and let out a long, dramatic exhale of satisfaction.

"Okay," he announced, looking down at his bowl with genuine respect. "I take back every bad thing I thought about the jar. This is spectacular. I feel my heart slowing down already, but it’s a worthy sacrifice."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, ignoring the fact that this was technically poor etiquette for a table graced by red silk and pinecones. He watched her eat—watched the way she didn't pick at it, didn't count the carbs, just enjoyed it. It was one of the thousand things he loved about her. In a world full of people who treated food like an enemy, Cleo treated it like an experience.

When she thanked him, his expression softened, the teasing light in his eyes dimming into something warmer.

"Hey," he said gently, nudging her foot with his under the table. "You don't thank me. We’re a team, remember? You handle the aesthetics and the emotional breakthroughs; I handle the carbohydrates and the safety scissors. It’s a delicate ecosystem."

He took another bite, twirling a massive nest of rigatoni against his spoon, splashing a tiny drop of orange sauce onto the placemat. He ignored it.

"Besides," he added, chewing thoughtfully. "I think this centerpiece is actually improving the flavor. It’s giving the pasta... ambition. It feels underdressed, but it’s trying its best."

He watched her take another bite, a small smudge of creamy orange sauce catching the corner of her mouth. He didn't say anything at first. He just watched her, looking at the firelight dancing in her eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweater that he was definitely never getting back.

He reached across the table, his hand hovering for a second before his thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, wiping the sauce away with a gentle, deliberate stroke.

"Messy," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, losing the joke.

He pulled his hand back, licking the sauce off his own thumb with a shameless, heated darken of his eyes.

"So," he said, clearing his throat and picking his fork back up, shifting gears before he dragged her across the table and ruined dinner. "Since we aren't doing the countdown thing... what’s the plan for tomorrow? Do we build a snowman? Do we hibernate? Or do I have to defend my title as the best Mario Kart player in the Sierra Nevadas?"

Cleo let out a soft laugh as Ben pointed his fork like a warning wand, her knee drawing up under her sweater as she settled deeper into the chair. It was comfortable in that way that didn’t ask permission—messy, lived-in, hers.

“If a ghost shows up,” she said, solemn as she twirled her pasta, “and you don’t offer him a plate, I’m pretty sure that’s how hauntings start. Garlic is hospitality.”

She watched him savor the food with that exaggerated reverence of his, chin tipping back, eyes closing for half a second like the jar had personally redeemed itself. It made something warm bloom behind her ribs. She liked feeding people. She liked feeding him.

When he nudged her foot and said team, she smiled down at her bowl, cheeks warming—not bashful, just… settled. She took a proper bite, unhurried, letting the flavors land. No guilt. No counting. Just enjoyment.

“Hey,” she said lightly, glancing up at him. “Safety scissors are an underrated skill. You’re basically indispensable.”

She caught his look when the sauce smudged her mouth but didn’t clock it right away—too busy chasing another forkful. When his hand reached across the table, she froze just a beat, eyes flicking up to his face as his thumb brushed her lip.

Her smile went soft first.

Then she scrunched her nose at him—playful, mock-offended, entirely fond—before leaning back just enough to reclaim her space and her fork, eyes sparkling.

“Rude,” she said, absolutely not meaning it, already going back for another bite like nothing had happened.

She watched him lick his thumb with that look, heat curling low in her stomach, and she shook her head once, grinning to herself as she chewed.

At his question, she slowed. Really thought about it. Fork paused mid-air. Firelight flickered across her face as she stared at nothing in particular, considering the snow, the quiet, the way tomorrow felt wide open.

Then, without warning, she sang—soft, a little dramatic, entirely unpolished—

“Do you wanna build a snowmaaaan…”

She cut herself off with a laugh, shoulders lifting.

“I mean—yes. Probably. At least a lopsided one. With a stick arm that looks vaguely threatening.”

She swallowed, then added, casual but pleased, “I brought my laptop too. We could always watch a movie if the snow wins. Or if you lose Mario Kart and need emotional recovery time.”

She tipped her head, smiling at him over the rim of her bowl.

“No countdown. No pressure. Just… us.”

Ben froze, his fork halfway to his mouth, a single rigatoni noodle precariously balanced on the tines.

He stared at her for a solid three seconds, blinking slowly, before he slowly lowered the fork back to the bowl.

"Did you just...?" He started, a slow, incredulous grin breaking across his face. "Wow. Okay. We just went full Arendelle. I wasn't ready for the vocal run. Disney lawyers are probably rappelling down the roof right now. You’ve doomed us."

He picked up his napkin, dabbing his mouth with exaggerated refinement, trying to hide the fact that he was absolutely delighted.

"First of all," he said, leaning forward, elbows on the table. "I am extremely down for a menacing snowman. I don't want a happy snowman. I want a snowman that looks like he listens to Slayer. I want a snowman that makes the neighbors lock their doors. We can give him a pinecone mohawk."

He pointed his fork at her again, his expression shifting into mock seriousness.

"But second—and I need you to listen to me very carefully, Cleo—do not write checks your kart can't cash."

He took a defiant bite of pasta, chewed, and swallowed with a cocky tilt of his head.

"Emotional recovery? Babe, I am Rainbow Road. I was born in the drift boost. I play Toad with a level of ruthlessness that is frankly concerning for a man of my age. If you want to go there, we can go there. But don't come crying to me when I hit you with a Blue Shell right at the finish line. I have no mercy. I have no loyalty. On the track, I am a monster."

He laughed then, the sound warm and easy in the firelight, and went back to his food, shaking his head.

"But yeah," he murmured, his voice softening as the joke faded, leaving just the comfort of the room and the girl across from him. "Movies sound good. Snowmen sound good."

He looked up, catching her eye over the centerpiece she’d built with her own frozen hands.
"Just us sounds perfect."

He scraped the bottom of his bowl, mourning the end of the pasta, and then reached for his water glass.

"But seriously," he added, eyes twinkling. "If you beat me at Mario Kart, I'm blaming the butter. It slows down my reflexes. It’s a scientifically proven fact."

Cleo laughed immediately—bright, uncontained—fork still hovering as she watched him short-circuit over the song. She took the opportunity to steal a bite while he was mid-monologue, eyes never leaving his face as she chewed like she was settling in for a show.

“Oh, relax,” she said around the pasta, swallowing before continuing. “If Disney wanted me, they’d have called after the Halloween Anna Incident.”

She tipped her head, smug.

“And they didn’t.”

At the snowman description, she gasped, delighted. “A Slayer snowman?” Her eyes lit up. “Oh, absolutely. He’s getting a crooked grin and one coal eye that’s… judging you. And yes—pinecone mohawk. Maybe a scarf that looks stolen.”

When he pointed his fork at her like a warning, she leaned back in her chair, folding one leg under herself again, entirely unbothered.

“Ben,” she said sweetly, then took another bite—on purpose—chewed slowly, dramatically, and only then added, “you’re thirty, babe. It might be time to put the gaming systems away.”

She held up a finger immediately, smiling wide. “—Kidding. Mostly. I respect the lore.”

She watched him puff himself up about Rainbow Road, eyes sparkling, chin propped in her palm like she was observing a beloved creature in its natural habitat.

“Toad?” she echoed. “That tracks. Small. Fast. Slightly unhinged.”

She laughed again when he declared himself a monster, warmth blooming in her chest as his voice softened, the room settling back into that quiet glow. When he said just us, she didn’t rush to answer. She just looked at him for a second, really looked—firelight, empty bowl, pasta-happy and earnest.

She took one more bite.

Then smiled.

“For the record,” she said lightly, “I’ve already beaten you.”

She lifted her brows at his look.

“Not tonight,” she clarified, laughing. “But spiritually. I can feel it. The win is coming.”

She reached for her water, clinking her glass gently against his.

“And yes—movies, snowmen, ruthless karting, butter-based excuses. All approved.” Her smile softened. “Just us is my favorite plan.”

She leaned back, content, eyes warm.

“But when I beat you,” she added, sing-song sweet, “I’m absolutely blaming your age.”