🎄🎄🎄🎄 🎄
Christmas, 2024
"It's kind of cute that you're so nervous."
Taylor glances up from what she's doing, twisting the bowl of the KitchenAid so that it fits into the stand before pressing the on button to tell him this, so casually, he thinks, forgetting the facts; they're hosting Christmas Eve with both of their families (who will be there in mere hours), he has a game the following day and the house looks slightly like a small hurricane's swept through it.
They'd had practice in the morning and instead of just hanging out and not doing much of anything, like he'd normally do afterwards, he's following Taylor around as she calmly bakes and wraps gifts, sure he's being a giant pain in the ass. He can't help it---his anxiety's kicked into high gear.
"Glad you think it's cute, baby, but I'm feeling like a prick. You're doing everything and I'm useless."
"Trav," she regards him evenly, turning those ice blue eyes on him, "you're fine. Everything is under control. I love baking, I love wrapping gifts and I even love cleaning. I made the mess, anyway, with all of my stuff everywhere. You just had practice...why don't you relax?"
"I don't want you to feel like everybody's coming to spend Christmas with us and you're doing all the work. That's not ---"
"Listen up. Not for a second do I believe you're a cave man and I'm a 1950s housewife. That isn't how we operate. But I don't want you to bake, because you'll burn the house down. Just the truth. And I don't want you anywhere near the wrapping paper because you use duct tape, which I know, I know, it's so anal retentive to complain about, but..."
"No, no, I appreciate your honesty."
All of this was said over the noise of the stand mixer and how they understood what the person was saying could only be a testament to their own style, a mixture of speaking loudly and body language and even through his nerves, he recognizes it's kind of fucking hilarious.
She switches it off, as though she's just realized it'd been on the whole time, her hands on her hips, facing him. She's been baking the entire morning, when he left, she'd just started and when he came back, she was still there, the cats milling around. When they'd get under her feet, she would sigh exasperatedly, but he knew she didn't really mean it.
The house smells spectacular, like sugar and cinnamon and gingerbread and he can only stare at the sight in front of him, his gorgeous girlfriend in sweats and a tank top, hair in a braid, barefooted with a smudge of flour across the bridge of her nose.
It's almost unfathomable how someone can be that incredibly beautiful and talented and be good at million different undertakings, on top of remaining a really good human being.
Not to mention, she puts up with his gaping at her all the time, only gives him that cute lopsided grin and crosses her arms in front of her chest like he's the biggest dork in the universe, but she's totally okay with it.
"I can't help it," he says now when he can tell she's going to mention that he's staring again. "You're just perfect."
"Far from it. I haven't showered, my hair is disgusting, I know for a fact I have flour on my face and I'm breaking out as we speak."
It's entirely self-deprecating, as is her way, but he's not letting her off the hook.
"Uh-uh, you are," he refutes, putting his arms around her. "I don't care if you smell or if your hair is gross or the flour," affectionately, he thumbs the spot on her nose, "and your face is beautiful, always is."
