Shortbread and Silent Promises

By Jamie Bell

Jared and Michael, embarking on their first Christmas as a couple, attempt the perilous art of shortbread baking, navigating flour-dusted chaos and the electric tension of burgeoning intimacy.

Jared had learned—purely through trial, error, and one near-psychological breakdown—that peace in a shared kitchen was a fragile thing. Not something you could schedule or demand. It existed briefly. Delicately. And then, without warning, it collapsed.

Today, it collapsed because of butter.

Cold, unsalted butter. Three sticks of it. Still hard. Still smug about it.

Michael stood at the counter like he was personally offended by dairy as a concept, whisk clutched in one hand, bowl in the other, putting his entire upper body into the effort. The whisk clanged loudly against ceramic, the sound sharp and chaotic in the otherwise quiet cottage.

Outside, the world was frozen and perfect—snow resting gently on tree branches, pale winter light slipping through the windows like it was afraid to disturb anything. Inside was… not that.

“This is insane,” Michael said, breathless, glaring down at the bowl. “Who decided butter should be this hard? This feels illegal. Like it should come with a warning label.”

Jared sat on the counter nearby, watching, trying—and failing—not to smile. Michael’s dark hair was already dusted with sugar, his sleeves rolled up, forearms tense as he attacked the bowl with more enthusiasm than technique.

“You were supposed to leave it out,” Jared said calmly.

Michael shot him a look. “I did leave it out.”

“For how long?”

“…Emotionally?”

Jared laughed quietly and slid off the counter. “You left it out for, what, five minutes?”

“Six,” Michael corrected. “I timed it.”

Jared stepped in behind him, close enough that Michael could feel the warmth of him before he even touched him. “Butter doesn’t respond to panic,” Jared said. “You have to be patient.”

“Well, it started it.”

Before Michael could protest, Jared reached around him, placing his hands over Michael’s on the whisk. The contact made Michael freeze instantly.

“Oh,” Michael said softly.

Jared guided the motion—slower, steadier, less violent. The bowl stopped rattling. The butter started to give.

Michael leaned back without really meaning to, shoulders settling against Jared’s chest. “Wow,” he said. “Okay. That’s… unfair. You’re unfairly good at this.”

“Physics,” Jared said near his ear. “Leverage.”

Michael swallowed. “Hot.”

Jared snorted, but didn’t move away right away. When he finally did, the butter was smooth, pale, perfect.

Michael stared into the bowl like it had betrayed him. “You realize I’m never allowed to cream butter alone again.”

“I’ll supervise,” Jared said. “From a safe distance.”

They moved on to the sugar.

Michael sifted it dramatically, holding the strainer way too high. “This part always looks fake in videos. Like nobody actually breathes while doing it.”

Right on cue, he sneezed.

Sugar exploded.

It coated the counter. The floor. Michael.

Jared just stared.

Michael blinked, powdered lashes fluttering. “I regret nothing.”

“You look like you lost a fight with winter,” Jared said.

He stepped closer and wiped sugar from Michael’s cheek with his thumb. The touch was brief, but it landed heavy. Michael’s eyes flicked to Jared’s, the room suddenly quieter than it had been all afternoon.

“Hey,” Michael said, softer now.

“Hey.”

Michael cleared his throat and turned back to the bowl. “Flour next. Before this becomes emotionally charged.”

They worked more carefully now, brushing hands, sharing space. Michael added cardamom without asking.

Jared noticed. “Was that… cardamom?”

“My grandma used it,” Michael said. “Trust me.”

Jared sighed. “I don’t trust you.”

“You trust me,” Michael corrected.

Jared paused. Then nodded. “That’s different.”

The dough came together—sticky, stubborn, imperfect.

At one point, a blob stuck to Michael’s nose.

Jared reached out and wiped it away without thinking.

They hovered there for a second too long, faces close, breathing the same air.

“You’re doing that thing,” Michael said quietly.

“What thing?”

“That look.”

Jared pulled back just a little. “What look?”

“The one where I forget what we’re doing.”

Michael smiled. Jared didn’t look away.

Rolling the dough was a mess. Cookie cutters refused to cooperate. Shapes came out wrong. One star looked like it had been through something traumatic.

Michael held it up. “This cookie needs therapy.”

Jared took it gently, set it on the tray, then lifted Michael’s hand and kissed his knuckles.

Michael froze.

“Hey,” Jared said again, softer. “They don’t have to be perfect.”

Michael exhaled. “Neither do we, right?”

“Especially not us.”

When the tray finally went into the oven, the kitchen smelled like butter and sugar and warmth. Michael leaned into Jared, resting his head on his shoulder. Jared wrapped an arm around his waist without hesitation.

“This is nice,” Michael said.

“Yeah,” Jared agreed.

They stood there quietly until the oven hummed louder, until the light shifted gold across the floor.

Jared kissed Michael gently—slow, sweet, tasting like sugar.

Michael smiled into it.

Behind him, unnoticed, Jared’s phone lit up on the table near the door. A name from a colder world. A life that didn’t smell like cookies.

Jared saw it.

He didn’t reach for it.

Instead, he held Michael tighter, breathing him in, letting the warmth sink deeper—knowing, somehow, that this peace wasn’t permanent, but wanting it anyway.

For now, the cookies were baking.

For now, this was enough.