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It was still dark when Mike slid his glasses on and slipped out of the bed, being careful not to wake Chester. He felt along the side of the bed until his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, then found his robe and slipped it on, making his way to the door and shutting it quietly behind him. The goal was to keep Chester from waking up until he was finished. 
                          
It had been almost a week since Mike's divorce had been finalized, and every day it seemed that his shoulders felt lighter, his footsteps bouncier, and his smile wider than it had been the day before. He was in love, and it no longer mattered who knew. He could shout it from the rooftops and write all over his social media for the press to lose their minds over, if he chose to do so. He could pull Chester to him on the street and kiss him on the lips and not worry if the paparazzi were lurking nearby. It was freeing; it felt like how he imagined flying must feel- liberating, joyful- this feeling of being in love and not being in hiding. Mike's face hurt from smiling almost non-stop the past six days.
                          
Making his way downstairs, he flipped on the lights in the kitchen and stood there for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust. As much as he wanted a cup of coffee before he started his project, he knew the smell of coffee would awaken Chester for sure. It was already going to be challenging enough to not wake him before he was finished.
                          
As quietly as he could manage, he found his mixing bowl and popped the butter in the microwave to melt, combining it with his sugar and milk and checking the temperature before adding the yeast. Mike watched the seconds tick away on his watch for a minute, then added flour and covered the bowl, setting it aside to rise. One hour. What am I going to do for an hour? His eyes fell on a sketchbook he'd left on the breakfast table, and he sat down to pass the hour before his dough was ready. 
                          
Light was just starting to streak the eastern sky when the hour was up, and Mike stretched as he rose from the table and made his way back to the stove where he hoped his dough had risen. It was always a gamble when he used yeast. If his mixture was too hot when he sprinkled the yeast on, the temperature killed the yeast and the dough wouldn't rise. If it wasn't warm enough, the yeast wouldn't activate, and it still wouldn't rise. He held his breath as he lifted the towel, pleased to see he'd gotten it right.
                          
The rest of the dry ingredients were mixed in, and then he sprinkled the flour out in order to knead the dough until it wasn't sticky anymore. Then he rolled it into a large rectangle, smeared softened butter over the surface, followed by a healthy sprinkling of brown sugar and cinnamon. The smell was heavenly and they weren't even in the oven yet. Chester loved cinnamon rolls, dripping in frosting, and Mike was determined to provide the very best in homemade cinnamon rolls on the first birthday Chester would wake up in their bed next to him. He smiled as he thought of carrying fragrant warm cinnamon rolls into their bedroom to wake him. 
                          
They were rolled, cut, and placed in the pan, set aside to rise for thirty more minutes, as Mike combined his cream cheese, vanilla, milk, powdered sugar, and more butter to make the frosting. He dipped a finger into the frosting experimentally, bringing his finger to his nose for a sniff first before his tongue poked out for a taste. Fuck, that's good. These are going to be awesome cinnamon rolls. Totally worth the three hours it takes to make these fuckers.
                          
After he popped them in the oven, he sliced strawberries and finally made coffee, savoring the smell of the dark roast Chester was fond of before he took a sip from his mug. The world had woken up in the amount of time it took Mike to make these cinnamon rolls, and the sunlight was streaming in the windows downstairs. It wouldn't be long before Chester would be stirring in the bed, wondering where Mike was. He hastily placed the hot cinnamon rolls on a tray, along with the bowl of fruit and the mugs of coffee, a sealed envelope with Chester's name in Mike's block letters across the front tucked under the plate of frosted bread.