John unlocked the door and peeked into the apartment. "Rodney? Where are you?"

"Kitchen," Rodney called back. "I need you to taste something."

John carefully picked up the box he'd leaned against the wall just outside the door and brought it inside before putting his laptop bag and coat down on the couch.

The kitchen smelled like warm chocolate, and Rodney's black apron was streaked with flour. He was standing over a towering cake - seven or eight alternating layers of chocolate and white, filled with what looked like raspberry jam. While John watched, Rodney quickly spread a rich fudge icing thickly over the sides and top of the cake.

John knew enough to stay back, even though he wanted to step forward and wrap his arms around Rodney's waist. Rodney made a pleased little sound when he finished smoothing the edges, then spread some of the icing onto his finger and held it out to John. Crossing to Rodney's side, John sucked the finger into his mouth, making extra-sure that he got all of the icing off it. It was buttercream, thick and silky, with a deep chocolate flavor and a hint of bitterness.

"Espresso?" John asked.

Rodney smiled. "Just a little. You like?"

"Uh-huh," John said. "You done in here?"

Rodney nodded toward another cake, this one unfrosted. "About another half-hour."

"Okay," John said. "I've got something new for the living room. It's a surprise, though. Can you stay in here until I call you?"

Rodney's eyes lit up with curiosity, but he nodded. "I guess," he muttered.

John kissed him lightly on the lips. "Save some frosting for later."

Back in the living room, he kicked off his shoes and carefully opened the box.

Twenty-five minutes later, he nodded, satisfied with his handiwork. "Rodney? You done?"

"One more minute!"

In exactly fifty-nine seconds, Rodney appeared at the door to the kitchen, the apron gone, revealing worn-out jeans and a black button-up shirt. John gestured, and Rodney joined him, leaning in for a soft kiss. John kissed back, then turned Rodney to face the wall. Rodney stared in silence for so long that John got nervous, shifting his weight from side to side, fighting the urge to clasp his hands together.

"It's..." Rodney said, then cleared his throat. "When did you?"

"Different times," John said, sneaking an arm around Rodney's waist. It wasn't often he was able to render Rodney speechless. He looked at the framed photographs on the wall. It was a triptych - three large black-and-white photos matted in creamy white and framed in sleek silver. The first one was a close-up of Rodney's hands holding a ten-inch chef's knife, slicing onions. There was a slight motion blur on the knife, capturing the blinding speed at which Rodney worked. The second photograph was, again, of Rodney's hands. This time, one hand held a whisk, and the other was gathering delicate strands of burnt sugar into a translucent cloud. The third highlighted Rodney's long, elegant fingers as they cradled a strawberry.

"When did you?" Rodney asked again, not looking away from the photos.

John pointed to the first one. "That was when you made dinner at Jack and Daniel's house. The second one is from the confectionary demo you did at the CIA last month, and that one," he pointed at the one with the strawberry. "That one was the day we met." He stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked away, thinking he'd probably made an ass of himself.

He felt Rodney's fingers - a little rough with flour, smelling like chocolate and espresso - touch the side of his face and turned into the contact, keeping his eyes downcast. Rodney kissed him gently, and John opened his eyes when it was over to see bright eyes twinkling at him.

"I made you a cake. Well, two cakes," Rodney said.

John had to clear his throat. "I like cake," he said, smiling.

Rodney kissed him again and pulled him close. John pressed his face into Rodney's neck. "It's been a good year," he said.