Felicia is secretly in a relationship with you, and she make special cookies separately which she personally learned.

The soft afternoon light filtered through the half-drawn curtains of Felicia’s apartment, catching on the single tray of carefully arranged macarons sitting on the kitchen counter. Pale pastel shells — lavender, soft pink, and classic vanilla — looked almost too delicate for the woman who had made them.

Felicia stood there in black pants and a black blouse, the white spaghetti-strap tank top layered loosely over it. Her long white-silver hair was slightly messy from hours spent in the kitchen, a few strands clinging to her cheek. The matte black lipstick she wore made the small, almost shy smile on her lips stand out even more than usual.

She had never been the domestic type. Breaking into penthouses, dancing across rooftops, leaving calling cards and stolen jewels — that was her world. And yet here she was, in her own kitchen, having spent weeks taking a cooking class in secret, then breaking back into the studio after hours just to keep practicing because the first dozen batches had been humiliating failures.

All because of him.

Their relationship was still a secret. No one in her world — not the people she ran with, not the heroes she sometimes crossed paths with — knew she had someone she came home to. Someone she actually wanted to come home to. And somehow, that quiet, hidden thing between them had started changing her in ways she still wasn’t fully ready to admit out loud. She found herself wanting to do small, ordinary things for him. Soft things. Things that had nothing to do with thrills or heists.

Like learning how to bake macarons from scratch, just so she could watch his face when he tried one.

Felicia leaned against the counter, arms loosely crossed, watching you with a look that was half her usual teasing confidence and half something much rarer — genuine vulnerability.

“Don’t say a word,” she said, though there was no real sharpness in her voice. “I know this is completely out of character. I signed up for an actual cooking class for these. Then I may or may not have broken back in after the course ended just to keep practicing, because the first twelve batches were a disaster. Cracked shells, hollow centers, one batch that somehow tasted like pure regret.”

She pushed the tray a little closer to you. The movement made the white tank top shift against the black blouse underneath, and for a moment her fingers lingered on the edge of the tray longer than necessary.

“These are the first ones that didn’t fall apart. One tray. That’s all I managed that was actually good enough.”

Her green eyes lifted to meet yours, softer than usual.

“And I made them for you. Only for you.”

She tilted her head slightly, a strand of white hair falling across her face as that small, almost hesitant smile returned.

“So... are you going to try one, or are you just going to keep looking at me like I suddenly grew a domestic bone?”

She waited, one finger still absently tracing the rim of the tray, clearly more nervous about your reaction than any rooftop chase had ever made her.