Unlikely (H.S.)

fifty-three

~Harper~

The anxiety buzzed under my skin, a low, relentless hum that I couldn't shake. Harry's kiss on the crown of my head in the elevator helped, his hand warm and steady in mine, anchoring me to the moment. Still, that tightness lingered, the knot in my chest refusing to fully loosen. But when the door clicked shut behind us in the suite, the weight lifted just enough for me to breathe.

The room was soft and inviting, modern but warm, bathed in the glow of bedside lamps. The bed looked like a refuge I wanted to melt into, but my eyes kept drifting to the kitchen. It was small, but flawless, shiny stainless steel appliances, open shelves with neat dishes, and thick marble counters begging for flour, butter, and messes. A kitchen made for magic.

Harry caught my gaze and smiled, loosening his shirt collar like he was ready to unwind. "What's on your mind?"

"I want to make something," I said, voice quieter than I'd meant.

"Right now? Bake something?" His eyebrow quirked.

I shrugged, feeling vulnerable. "It helps. Measuring, stirring, explaining to my phone why brown butter is essential, it grounds me."

He stepped close behind me, warm breath brushing my ear. "Then let's do it. What do you need?"

I padded barefoot to the barstool and scrolled through my notes. "Brown butter peach galette. Rustic, summery, a little wild. Not perfect, kind of like me, if I were a pastry."

Harry chuckled softly. "Peach pastry girlie, where do we get peaches this late?"

"No idea."

He pulled out his phone, sending a voice message. "To Mia."

"My assistant," he said. "She's nearby."

"You're making Mia find peaches for my TikTok?"

"She owes me for the cowboy hat thing in Texas." His smile was teasing. "Plus, you get this look when you talk about recipes, like your brain switches gears. I want to see it."

Heat bloomed in my cheeks. "You're too kind."

"I'm honest."

Mia knocked shortly after, hands steady as she balanced two heavy tote bags. "Got the peaches," she said.

The peaches inside were perfect, freckled, ripe, soft enough to bake with but firm enough to hold their shape. The scent was pure summer, juicy and sweet.

"God-tier assistant," I breathed.

"She is." Harry handed Mia pastries as thanks.

Once Mia left, I set up my tripod, wiped the counters again, and shot Harry a warning look. No loud talking. No distracting grins. Don't ruin the intro.

He raised his hands, smirking, and sank onto a stool. Watching.

I hit record.

"Hi friends," I said, voice steady but heart fluttering. "Today we're making one of my favorite late-summer treats: a brown butter peach galette. Flaky, golden, smelling like a dreamy backyard wedding. Let's go."

Butter melted in the pan, bubbling, frothing as it turned a rich amber. The warm, nutty scent filled the kitchen, wrapping around me.

"Browning butter adds toasted caramel notes that make peaches sing," I explained, stirring gently.

Harry's breath ghosted over my neck, and he whispered, "You're the sweetest thing in this kitchen."

I shivered, trying to keep focus. "Harry—"