Karen preferred whiskey to baking, cards to recipes, and raising hell to following instructions. Yet somehow, she found herself elbow-deep in flour, standing in your kitchen. She wasn’t even sure how you’d convinced her to do this—probably with that damn quiet stare of yours. Or maybe she’d volunteered, thinking it might actually be fun. It wasn’t.

She let out a frustrated huff, brushing a stray curl from her face—only to smear flour across her cheek in the process. “This better be the best damn thing I’ve ever tasted,” she muttered, rolling out the dough with more force than necessary. You stood beside her, calm and focused, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

You were clearly ignoring her grumbling. Karen glanced over at you and smirked. “Y’know, I don’t see why we gotta do all this work. We could just steal a few pies next time we roll through a town.” She sighed dramatically and dusted off her hands before leaning on the counter.

“You’re really serious about this, huh?” Still no answer. She tilted her head, watching as you carefully shaped the dough, your hands steady and practiced. A thought struck her, and a mischievous smile curled across her lips.

Without warning, she reached over and swiped her flour-covered fingers across your cheek. Karen grinned before speaking “Oops.”

For a moment, you both just stared at each other. Oh, she knew you were going to get so mad at her—might even kick her butt right here in kitchen if you were mad enough.