Her words hung there, heavy and electric, and for once he didn’t try to dodge them. Didn’t wrap them in a joke or shrug them off. He just let himself stand in the middle of it, heart thudding like she’d put him on stage with no mic, no guitar, just truth.

“Good,” he said, his voice lower than he expected, his own accent curling sharper around the word. “Because I’m useless without you. Completely, embarrassingly useless. You’ve seen me try to boil pasta.”

Her lips twitched at that, but he pressed on, stepping in until the flour dust clung to both of them like confetti from some private celebration.

“You know I’ve written a thousand songs, yeah? But none of them—none of them—sound like what I feel when you’re here.” His grin curved crookedly, softening into something he couldn’t have faked if he tried. “So you’ve won, Maddie Marsh. Every bloody verse, every chorus, every encore. You’ve got me.”

He brushed his thumb along her cheek again, slower this time, reverent. “And you don’t even need the flowers. Or the earrings. Or the ring I’ll probably still get wrong the first time.”

She let out a little laugh, and God, he adored that sound, the way it cracked the air like sunlight through fog. He leaned in closer, nose brushing hers, voice dropping into something just for her.

“You’re it for me. The whole song. The only thing that ever made sense. And I’ll say it as many times as you want until you finally believe me.”

He kissed her temple again, softer this time, lingering. Then pulled back just enough to smirk, eyes glittering. “Still not cleaning the counters, though. Can’t ruin my reputation completely.”

She shoved at his chest, rolling her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. He caught her wrist again, kissed the inside of it like a promise, and let the words tumble out before he could stop them.

“I love you, Maddie Marsh. Recklessly. Irrevocably. In ways that scare the hell out of me. And I wouldn’t trade it for a spotless kitchen or a perfect song.”

His laugh rumbled low as he nudged her hip with his. “You’ve got me, love. Forever. Frosting smudges and

For once, she didn’t have a comeback lined up. No teasing, no jab sharp enough to cut the moment before it got too raw.

Because the way he said it — you’ve got me — knocked the air out of her like she’d been bracing for impact and still lost her footing.

The cloth in her hand sagged against the counter. The counters could wait. Hell, the whole world could.

She turned, flour still clinging to her knuckles, and let her gaze drag over him like she was trying to memorize him from scratch. Recklessly. Irrevocably. Who even says things like that? Who means them?

Apparently him. Her ridiculous, stubborn, perfect fool of a man.

“Kitchen’s already ruined,” she said, voice soft but threaded with that smile he always swore killed him. She nudged past him toward the corner of the counter, where the little vintage stereo sat between a cookbook and an empty mixing bowl. A twist of the dial, a faint crackle, and suddenly the kitchen filled with the scratchy warmth of an old love song. Something timeless, meant for late nights and messy counters.

She didn’t ask. Didn’t explain. Just set the rag down, wiped her hands on her hips, and held hers out to him.

“You want forever, Parker?” Her eyes caught his — playful now, but steady underneath. “Then start with this. Cake in the oven, floor covered in flour, and me in your arms. That’s what it looks like.”

His grin told her he was already lost, already hers.

When his fingers slid through hers, she let him tug her in. Let the music wrap around them, soft and unpolished, the kind of background melody you don’t forget because of who you were holding when you heard it.

Her head tipped against his chest, his heartbeat thudding wild under her ear. She smiled into it, humming low to match the song, one hand still caught in his like they were teenagers again sneaking into somebody’s garage party.

The cake could burn, the counters could stay streaked. None of it mattered.

Not when Ethan Parker was swaying her around their flour-stained kitchen like she was the only song that ever made sense.

Her hand was small in his, but the weight of it anchored him like nothing else ever had. He didn’t just hold it — he lifted it, turning it palm-up and pressing his lips against the flour-dusted skin. Light, reverent, almost like he was afraid she’d disappear if he wasn’t careful.

“Forever, then,” he said, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “But fair warning, Marsh — I’m terrible at subtle. Everyone’s going to know.”

He kissed each of her fingertips in turn, ridiculous and theatrical, grinning when she rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away.

“You don’t just wreck me,” he went on, softer now, “you make me better. All the noise goes quiet when it’s you. Doesn’t matter if it’s a stadium or a bloody corner shop — if you’re there, I can breathe.”

His laugh broke through, low and almost disbelieving. “And God, I love you for it. Madly. Stupidly. More than I’ve ever loved anything that wasn’t a guitar.” He paused, tilting his head. “Actually, no. More than the guitar too. Don’t tell her though, she’s sensitive.”

The grin widened, but his eyes stayed soft, full of something that made his chest ache. He lowered her hand back down, still holding it, still unwilling to let go.

“You’re the best part of every mess, Maddie Marsh. That’s all I’ll ever need.”

The timer dinged, sharp against the soft haze between them. Maddie slipped her hand from his, tugging on the oven mitts with that little flourish she did when she knew he was watching. He leaned against the counter, arms folded, smirk tugging at his mouth as she bent to pull the pan free.

Golden, perfect, steaming. She set it down like a prize.

“Moment of truth,” he murmured, eyeing the cake like it was their firstborn.

She swatted his arm when he reached too soon, but the second she turned for the frosting, he dipped a finger straight into the edge. The heat stung, but the taste was worth it. Sweet, warm, a little uneven—perfect.

Maddie spun back, catching him mid-lick.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said through a grin, holding his finger out toward her. “Tradition dictates the star gets the first taste.”

She hesitated, narrowed her eyes, but leaned in anyway. Her lips closed around his fingertip, quick, playful, gone before he could blink. The grin that broke across her face nearly finished him.

“Christ, you’re going to kill me,” he muttered, laughing under his breath. He reached for the bowl of frosting, scooped a little, and before she could duck away, swiped it across the tip of her nose.

Her gasp was loud enough to shake the windows. His laugh followed right after, unguarded and helpless. “Beautiful,” he teased, cupping her jaw to keep her from wiping it off immediately. “Absolutely breathtaking. Best cake I’ve ever seen.”

She smudged his cheek in retaliation, and soon they were both streaked in frosting and laughter.

Ethan didn’t care about the mess. Not the counters, not the ruined shirts, not even the cake cooling between them.

Because the taste he wanted most was already his—Maddie Marsh, smiling up at him like he’d hung the moon in their little flour-dusted kitchen.

It was just like him. One second saying things that made her chest ache, the next grinning at her like he was born to drive her insane.

“Forever,” she repeated softly, more to herself than him, before rolling her eyes at the frosting streak cooling on her nose. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Parker, or I’d shove this cake right back in the oven out of spite.”

He only grinned wider, that boyish, utterly shameless kind of grin that had gotten him out of trouble more times than she cared to count. Maddie pressed her palm against his cheek, smudging frosting there for good measure. “There. Now we’re even.”

For a beat they just stood there, breathless, sugar-dusted, laughter echoing in their messy kitchen. But then her gaze flicked to the cake, golden and proud on the rack, steam still curling from the edges. She let out a steadying breath and brushed her hands against her apron.

“Alright, rockstar,” she said, her tone soft but decisive, “fun later. Cake first. If you want this masterpiece frosted before it’s midnight, go wash up.” She plucked at the front of his shirt, sticky with streaks of sugar and flour. “And maybe change before the health department shuts us down.”

He pouted, of course, but she just tilted her head toward the hallway, the kind of smile tugging at her mouth that meant she wasn’t negotiating.

“I’ll finish the counters while it cools,” she promised, already reaching for the rag again. “Then, once the cake’s done—” she gave him a pointed look over her shoulder, “—then we can celebrate. Properly.”

Her voice dipped at the last word, playful and deliberate, leaving him with no doubt what she meant.

She caught the sparkle in his eyes before he finally relented, muttering something about her being impossible as he disappeared toward the bathroom. Maddie smiled to herself, turning back to the counter with her rag in hand.

The cleaning could wait, sure—but if forever really started here, she was determined to give them both the kind of kitchen worth remembering it in.

She called him cute, threatened oven-murder, and still somehow managed to look like the most dangerous thing in the world to him. Dangerous because he’d never had this before — someone who could take his chest apart with a single word and then patch it back together with a laugh.

Her palm pressed against his cheek, smearing frosting across his skin, and he couldn’t help it — he laughed. Real, helpless, shaking right through him. He caught her wrist before she could pull away, pressing a kiss into her flour-dusted palm.

“Even?” he said, tilting his head with mock seriousness. “Not a chance. You’ve been winning since the second you walked into this kitchen.”

She rolled her eyes at him, but he saw the corner of her mouth twitch. That was all he ever needed.

When she turned back to the cake, issuing orders like she was born to boss him around, he leaned against the doorframe and let himself look. Really look. Her apron crooked, hair wild, shirt ruined — and still, she glowed. His chest ached with it.

“You do realize,” he called after her, grinning through the words, “that you’re the only person on the planet who could get me to scrub up just to earn a slice of cake. Anyone else, I’d have bolted by now.”

She didn’t answer, just flicked him that pointed glance over her shoulder — the one that said she wasn’t bluffing. His grin softened, slipping toward something only she ever saw.

“Alright, Marsh,” he sighed, giving in like he always did with her. “I’ll wash up. I’ll even change. But only because I like the sound of this… proper celebrating you’ve got planned.”

He winked, boyish and smug, before disappearing down the hall. But his laugh lingered in the flour-dusted air, warm and certain, wrapping around her like a promise:

He wasn’t going anywhere.

He didn’t take long — just enough to swap the ruined shirt for a clean black tee and scrub the sugar off his arms. But when he stepped back into the kitchen, it felt different somehow. Like the air had settled. Like this little room, with its counters still dusted white and its cake cooling on the rack, had quietly decided to keep their secret.

Maddie stood with her back to him, rag set aside, the stereo still humming that old love song like it had been waiting for them. Her hair was loose now, strands falling in soft waves, the flour streaks catching the low light.

He leaned against the doorway for a moment, just watching. Letting himself breathe her in. Then, softly—
“Don’t think I’ve ever looked this respectable in your kitchen before.”

She turned, catching him with that smile that hit harder than any lyric he’d ever written.

He crossed to her, slow but certain, slipping his hands to her waist as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “Better?” he asked, tilting his chin toward the clean shirt. “Presentable enough to earn cake privileges?”

Her laugh brushed against his collarbone, warm and careless, and God, he wanted to bottle the sound.

“Because I’ll be honest,” he went on, voice dipping into something playful, “I’d have scrubbed up twice if it meant getting to come back to you like this. Cake or no cake.”

He bent to press his lips against her temple — quick, sure, sealing the words with the smallest vow. Then he leaned back, his grin returning, boyish and wicked.

“Now,” he said, nodding toward the frosted masterpiece waiting on the counter, “are we slicing into that thing, or am I supposed to just stare at it while you torture me?”

He came back clean, smug grin intact, and Maddie knew the counters were technically still streaked — she’d gotten most of it while he was gone, but there were patches here and there that would drive her nuts if she looked too closely. Still, they could wait. For once, she could let them wait.

She leaned back against the counter, arms folded, watching the way he carried himself like he’d just won something. Maybe he had.

“Looking good,” she said with a playful arch of her brow, “but if you want cake privileges, you’re on frosting duty.”

His eyebrows shot up, but before he could argue, she pressed the bowl of frosting into his hands and leaned in to kiss him — slow, certain, tasting faintly of sugar and laughter.

“Your turn,” she murmured against his lips. “I’ll be back before you’ve licked the spoon clean.”

And with that, she slipped past him, her hip brushing his as she went, leaving him with the bowl and his boyish grin.


---

The bedroom was quiet, the soft hum of the stereo in the kitchen muffled through the walls. Maddie tugged her ruined shirt over her head, the apron and jeans following in a heap onto the laundry pile. She caught her reflection in the mirror — frosting streak along her jaw, flour smudge at her temple — and huffed a laugh. This was what forever looked like? Sticky, messy, and hers.

She grabbed a pack of wipes from the dresser, swiping away every smear of sugar and flour until her skin glowed clean again. Then she dug through the drawer, pulling out a soft outfit that felt like exhaling: a pale lavender knit tank with delicate straps, cropped just enough to show a sliver of skin above the waistband of her gray joggers. They were high-waisted, loose in the legs but cuffed at the ankle, cozy without hiding the shape of her frame. She slipped on a pair of white ankle socks, her hair falling loose around her shoulders in soft waves she didn’t bother taming.

Comfy. Cute. Effortless in that way she knew would make him look twice when she walked back in.

For a moment, she lingered, barefoot in the quiet, letting the weight of it all settle. The cake, the laughter, the man in her kitchen. The fact that he was hers and he wasn’t going anywhere.

Then she padded back down the hall.


---

Ethan was right where she left him — frosting in hand, humming along badly to the stereo, tongue poking out slightly in concentration as he dragged the spatula across golden sponge.

Maddie leaned against the doorframe, watching him like a secret. Then she smiled — warm, a little sly — and stepped back into the kitchen, the smell of cake and sugar wrapping around her like home.

“Alright, maestro,” she said, brushing past him to peek at the cake. “Let’s see if your decorating skills are as spectacular as your dishwashing.”

The frosting was uneven, his tongue poking out in concentration like some amateur, but the second he saw her, he forgot the cake entirely.

Five minutes. That’s all she’d been gone. Yet here she was, soft lavender tank and gray joggers, hair falling loose in waves he wanted to bury his hands in, barefoot on their kitchen floor like she belonged to every inch of it.

His chest tightened. Maddie Marsh could walk into a room dressed for comfort and still take the breath out of him.

He smiled, slow and helpless, setting the spatula aside just to take her in. She’ll never understand, not really. How every version of her feels like the first time.

When she brushed past him, peeking at the cake, he leaned into the warmth of her presence. A hip against his, a shoulder nearly grazing his arm — such a small touch, yet enough to settle something deep in him.

“Bloody hell, Marsh,” he breathed, words low and certain, “I’d frost cakes every day if it meant I got to see you like this.”

No grin this time, no deflection. Just truth.

And then, because he couldn’t let the moment drown him completely, he reached for the spatula again and swiped the faintest streak of frosting onto her nose. Not a prank. Not really. More like a mark — a boyish, silly way of saying mine.

He laughed softly, leaning in until his forehead almost touched hers, his voice gentler now.

“Perfect,” he whispered. “Couldn’t dream you up better if I tried.”

For a moment he just held there, watching her eyes, memorizing the curve of her smile, letting the sweetness of it sink into his bones.

The cake had cooled just enough, golden and waiting. He grabbed a knife, cut a neat slice, and slid it onto a plate like he’d done it a thousand times. But this wasn’t about the cake. Not really.

He picked up the fork, twirling it once between his fingers, then glanced at her. Flour gone, hair falling soft, frosting still dabbed on her nose like it belonged there. His lips curved without permission.

“This is yours first,” he said, steady, lifting the bite toward her. He couldn’t look away as she leaned in, closing her lips around the fork. The hum that slipped out of her throat was quiet, but it lit through him like a fuse.

He swallowed, watching her chew, watching her smile break across her face. That was it. That was all he’d ever needed.

Before she could tease him, he stole the fork back, scooping another bite and slipping it into his own mouth. Sweet, warm, perfect — but not half as good as the way she’d looked taking hers.

He set the fork down, shifted closer, brushed his thumb over the frosting still clinging to her nose. This time, instead of wiping it away, he leaned in and kissed it off, soft and unhurried.

“You taste better than the cake,” he murmured, the words against her skin more vow than joke. “And I’ll never get enough.”

Her laugh caught in his collar as he pulled her into him, plate forgotten on the counter, sweetness lingering between them like a promise.

He said it so simply — perfect — like it was a fact, not something up for debate. And for a second, Maddie couldn’t breathe. Because it wasn’t the frosting on her nose or the cake cooling on the counter. It was him. The boy who’d stayed through every dark turn, every bruise to her pride, every night she swore she’d never find her voice again.

The fork in his hand made her laugh, but the bite of cake on her tongue nearly broke her. Sweet, yes, but what really hit her was the look in his eyes — like he was watching her taste something he’d baked with his own hands, like it mattered more than any stage, any crowd.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat, meeting his gaze when he leaned in and kissed the frosting from her nose. The words slipped against her skin — you taste better than the cake — and instead of teasing, she let them sink in, warm and terrifying and real.

Her laugh fell soft into his collar as his arms came around her. She let herself stay there, forehead pressed to his shoulder, breathing him in.

“You know…” she started, voice a little hoarse, “I don’t think I’ve ever said thank you properly. Not for the cake, not for tonight — for all of it. For being here. For staying when I couldn’t even stand myself.”

She leaned back just enough to look at him, her fingers brushing across the clean line of his jaw. “You saw me through the ugliest parts — the mess after they stole my debut, the weeks I couldn’t get out of bed, the nights I thought maybe music had used me up and spat me out. You sat in the dark with me, Ethan. And you never made me feel small for breaking.”

Her thumb lingered at the corner of his mouth, tender, steady. “Now we’re here. A real album, one that’s mine. And you’re still the one in my kitchen, making me laugh with frosting on my face.”

Her smile trembled, but it held. “I don’t ever want to forget that. I don’t ever want to forget you were the one who stayed.”

The words left her before she could stop them, quiet but certain: “You’re my favorite part of all of this. The music, the mess, the madness. You’re the only part I never want to lose.”

She kissed him then — not rushed, not playful, but slow and reverent, like sealing every word into his skin. The cake sat forgotten again, cooling on the counter, but Maddie didn’t care. The sweetness she wanted most was already in her arms.

Her words carved straight into him. Not sharp, not cruel, but deep. So deep he felt them settle in places he usually kept locked up tight. Maddie Marsh, standing in his kitchen with sugar on her cheek and steel in her voice, thanking him for staying — as if there’d ever been another option.

He cupped her jaw gently, thumb brushing across her cheek like he could steady the quake in her voice. Her skin was warm beneath his touch, soft and familiar, and all he could think was God, I’d give my whole life to keep this safe. His chest ached, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke it off. Not with this. Not when she was baring her whole heart to him.

“Don’t thank me,” he said, quiet but certain, resting his forehead against hers. “I didn’t stay out of duty, Maddie. I stayed because I couldn’t not. Watching you fight your way back to yourself… that’s the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot.”

The corner of his mouth tugged upward, small and shy, but real. “Every time you thought you were breaking? All I ever saw was someone still here. Still standing. Even if it was in pieces. And you were never small to me. Not once. Not even close.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth, slow, reverent, tasting sugar and something sweeter. His lips lingered there before pulling back just enough to meet her eyes again. And God, those eyes — they undid him every time, knocked the air out of him like he was nineteen again and writing love songs he didn’t understand yet.

“You say I’m your favorite part of this,” he murmured, voice gone rough, “but Maddie, you’re the whole damn thing for me. The music, the mess, the madness… it all means nothing if it’s not with you. Always you.”

His laugh broke out, low and helpless, as if the weight of his own honesty surprised him. “And for the record? Frosting on your face is my new religion. I’ll follow it anywhere.”

He pulled her in closer, arms around her like he meant to shield her from every storm, like he was swearing something wordless into her bones. The weight of her against his chest grounded him in a way no tour bus, no arena, no applause ever could.

He pressed his lips into her hair, eyes closing, voice a whisper against her temple. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever been sure of, Maddie Marsh. The only one.”

The cake sat forgotten, the stereo hummed on, the counters were still streaked with flour — but none of it mattered. Not when she was here. Not when forever was this close, this possible, this hers.

“Forever,” he said again, no grin this time, no theatrics. Just a vow. Simple. Certain. Hers.

Her chest went tight at his words — so achingly tender, so sure — and for a moment, Maddie felt the sting at the back of her eyes. The kind that used to unravel her when she least expected it.

But not tonight.

Not when the stereo hummed softly, not when the smell of cake lingered warm in the air, not when his arms were around her like he never intended to let go. She didn’t want to cry unless it was from laughing so hard her stomach hurt. Not tonight.

She pulled back just enough to catch his gaze, her lips curving into something softer, brighter. “Okay,” she said, her voice gentler than the grin that spread across her face. “You’ve officially earned yourself a slice of cake and a glass of champagne. But fair warning—if you make me cry before midnight, I’m revoking your cake privileges.”

His laugh rumbled low in his chest, and she felt it vibrate through her ribs as she turned toward the counter. The knife waited, the cake golden and ready. She cut herself a generous slice this time, plopped it onto a plate, and snagged the champagne from where it had been chilling in the fridge.

“This is our party,” she declared, pulling two mismatched glasses down from the cabinet. “The big release one can wait for everyone else. Tonight’s just for us.”

She poured, foam fizzing over the edge of one glass and making her laugh as she scrambled for a dish towel. “See? Already better than any industry soirée,” she teased, handing him a glass before lifting hers in a mock toast.

“To frosting on noses, uneven cakes, and not letting me cry tonight,” she said, eyes sparkling as she clinked her glass against his. Then, before he could get sentimental again, she stuffed a forkful of cake into her mouth, closing her eyes dramatically and letting out a hum loud enough to make him laugh.

“Oh my God,” she said around the bite, waving her fork in the air. “Forget stadiums. Forget critics. This—” she pointed between them with her fork, “—this is the celebration that matters. Me, you, cake, champagne. The rest of the world can wait.”

And for the first time in a long time, Maddie felt it fully — not just relief, not just survival, but joy. Simple, golden, bubbling joy that tasted like sugar and champagne and forever.