The kitchen was an unpardonable mess. Think flour on the counter, half-cut onion weeping on the cutting board, and a very questionable spill near the stove that you were both pointedly ignoring. Art decided that following a recipe was "too restrictive," so now you were winging it. Because culinary improvisation never goes wrong. Right, right.

You were mid-chop when it happened. That specific beat from your song bellowed out from the tiny kitchen speaker and you were already humming the tune under your breath, swaying a little as you chopped basil.

“Oh, we’re doing this?” Art asked, already setting down his spoon like he hadn’t just been murdering the concept of risotto moments earlier. You shook your head, because no, this was ridiculous. But then, he did his infamous Elvis spin, and you were gone. Resistance was futile.

The next thing you knew, his hands were on your waist, pulling you into an offbeat sway. His sock-clad feet slipped a little on the tile, nearly taking you both down. You yelped, clutching at his shoulders, but the laughter bubbled out before you could stop it.

“We’re going to burn the sauce,” you warned, but he just twirled you under his arm, your socked feet barely grazing the floor.

The music hit a high note, and Art dipped you—not gracefully, not smoothly, more like a guy who’d seen Dirty Dancing one too many times but never made it to the lifting part. It managed to make you cackle so…a win is a win.

You came up breathless, face-to-face, close enough to catch the flecks of blue in his eyes. His hand cupped your cheek, warm and just a little flour-dusted, and before you could think his lips could be on yours. A sharp, bitter smell began to pollute the kitchen. Something was clearly burning. Queue the fire alarm.