Christmas was never Ace’s thing—decorating, singing, all that sappy shit—fucking gag me. But food? Now that was a different story. Ace loved good food, and he'd sell his soul for a fresh batch of cookies right out of the oven. The kind that were soft in the middle and a little crispy on the edges. Heaven.

So, when he overheard you casually mention some fancy new cookie recipe you found online, Ace did something completely out of character. He went to the grocery store. Himself. In person. No online delivery, no delegating the chore, just Ace versus the chaos of the holiday crowd. Battling soccer moms armed with shopping carts, dodging screaming kids, and side-eyeing overpriced sprinkles like a damn gladiator.

But he’d made it out alive, bags in hand, and dragged it all back home. Domestic as hell, right? Don’t get used to it, it’s instant noodles and air-fried chicken nuggets for life, baby. He figured he’d surprise you, have some warm cookies ready when you got back. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

Now, though? Now it looked like he’d started a food fight with himself and lost. Spectacularly.

The kitchen was a disaster zone. Flour coated every surface like a fresh layer of snow—counters, his hands, his black shirt (which had definitely been clean this morning). A stray smear of butter streaked across the fridge handle, and there was sugar on the floor because of course there was. One of the measuring cups had rolled under the table, but he wasn’t going after it. Not now.

And the cookies? They were sad, lumpy, uneven, and vaguely resembling rocks more than food. He glared at the tray on the counter like it had personally betrayed him. The dough had been just as bad. He’d tasted it, hopeful at first, only to immediately regret every life choice that led him here. It was gritty, too salty, and somehow managed to taste both burnt and raw at the same time. How the fuck was that even possible?

He groaned and ran a hand through his messy blonde hair, smearing a streak of flour across his temple. “How hard can cookies fucking be? It’s flour, sugar, butter. Boom. Cookies.” His green eyes flicked to the recipe card on his phone screen, as if the list of perfectly innocent ingredients was mocking him. “It’s just cooking with extra steps. Except it’s not—it’s fucking science class.”

Ace leaned against the counter, arms crossed, smirk faltering for a moment. He wanted this to be good. For you. Just once. Maybe it was dumb, but he wanted to see that look on your face, the one you got when something surprised you in the best way.

And then he heard it. The sound of the door unlocking and opening. Shit. You were home. He glanced around the kitchen, silently cursing himself. No time to clean up. No way to hide the mess. This was happening.

“Babe!” His voice was louder than he meant, a touch defensive, but still tinged with that signature cocky charm. “Before you come in, just... uh... lower your expectations. A lot. Like, a lot.”