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And yet he did—the flu to end all flu.

Gerard sidles up beside me, his presence warm and solid, and bumps my shoulder with his. “Think we should intervene before they start throwingflour at each other?”

I snort softly and shake my head. “Nah, let them duke it out. It’s more entertaining than the Christmas baking show.”

Gerard chuckles and watches them argue for a couple more minutes before clearing his throat loudly. Drew and Jackson freeze mid-argument. “Alright, children, that’s enough. How about this—Elliot and I will handle the cookies. You two can focus on beating each other inSuper Smash Bros.”

Drew opens his mouth to protest, but Gerard silences him with a glare that could curdle milk. Jackson, on the other hand, is relieved. He shoots Gerard a grateful smile before hurrying out of the kitchen and dragging a grumbling Drew with him.

“Guess that’s settled then,” I say, walking into the kitchen. “You sure you want to do this with me, though? Like Jackson, I’m not exactly known for my culinary prowess.”

Gerard grins. “Aw, come on, it’ll be fun! We can blast some Christmas music, make a mess, and maybe even sneak a few bites of cookie dough when no one’s watching.”

He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and a traitorous flutter dances in my stomach. Damn him and his charming, boyish enthusiasm. Ever since I told him I love him, it’s been getting harder and harder to maintain my grumpy exterior around him.

An hour later,the kitchen resembles a festive war zone. Flour coats every surface, including Gerard’s face and my hair. Splatters of red and green icing decorate our clothes, the walls, and, somehow, even the ceiling. The warm, sugary scent of baking cookies fills the air, mingling with Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You” blaring from the small radio.

Gerard is in his element. He’s wearing Oliver’s frilly white apron, and a chef’s hat—that he found hidden in a cupboard—sits crookedly atop his blond hair. He looks like a big little kid playing dress-up.

In contrast, I have on Drew’s “Shake and Bake that Booty” apron. I protested when Gerard tossed it to me, but he grinned and said, “Drew would consider it an honor.”

Despite the mess and the inevitable clean-up that awaits us, baking with Gerard has been surprisingly fun. He’s a whirlwind of energy, dancing around the kitchen as he mixes, rolls, and decorates the cookies with endearing and exhausting enthusiasm.

At one point, he dabbed icing on my nose and then licked it off. It was as erotic as it was sweet, and naturally, he had no idea. I retaliated by flicking flour at him, which led to a brief but intense food fight that left us breathless from laughter.

The oven timer dings, bringing me back to the present, and Gerard springs into action. He quickly removes trays of perfectly golden cookies and sets them on the cooling racks, looking ridiculously proud of himself. “Ta-da! Behold, the fruits of our labor!”

I snort at his antics. “More like the fruits ofyourlabor. I mostly just stood there looking pretty.”

Gerard winks at me. “And you did an excellent job at that, by the way.”

My cheeks warm, and I quickly turn around and wipe down the counter. My eyes catch a tube of red icing that somehow escaped the carnage of our baking battle. I pick it up and turn it over as an idea forms in my head.

It’s a ridiculous idea, really. The old Elliot would have dismissed it as too risky, too bold. But the new Elliot, who has embraced the chaos of loving Gerard, experiences a thrill of excitement.

I clear my throat, trying to sound casual as I say, “Hey, Gerard? Can you come here for a second? I need your help with something.”

Gerard bounds over, his face alight with curiosity. “What’s up, buttercup?”

I roll my eyes at the nickname but can’t entirely suppress a smile. “First of all, never call me that again. And second, I need you to put your hands on the counter and spread your legs.”

Gerard blinks at me, confusion clouding his features. “Uh, okay? But why?”

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Just trust me, okay?”

He hesitates momentarily, searching my face for any hint of my plan, but I keep my expression neutral. Realizing I’m not going to give anything away, he shrugs and complies. He places his large hands on the cool marble surface of the counter and spreads his legs, his back to me.

I take a moment to admire the view. Gerard’s ass is a modern marvel. It’s the kind of ass that belongs on the cover of a porn magazine or in a museum dedicated to the male form. And it’s all mine.

Taking a step closer, my heart hammers in my chest as I hook my fingers in the waistband of his sweatpants.

Gerard tenses, his head whipping around to peer over his shoulder. “Elliot, what are you?—”

Before he can finish his sentence, I yank his sweatpants and boxers down in one swift motion, exposing his bare ass to the cool air of the kitchen. Gerard yelps in surprise, his hands reflexively grabbing his cheeks.

I bat them away, my voice low and commanding as I tell him to keep his hands on the counter.

He gulps loudly, his eyes wide and dark with confusion and arousal. He obeys, slowly placing his hands back where they belong.