You walk into the kitchen expecting takeout cartons or maybe a bottle of whiskey on the counter — something that screams Court.

Instead, you find him at the stove, sleeves pushed up, moving around the kitchen with smooth confidence. There’s already dough resting on the counter, and the smell of butter and vanilla hangs in the air.

“You… baked?” you ask, blinking.

He glances over his shoulder, deadpan but with that faint gleam in his eyes. “Baking. Present tense. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“You know how to do this?”

Court gives you a look, like the question itself is offensive. “I can take apart a rifle in thirty seconds blindfolded. You think cookies are beyond me?”

You laugh, rolling your eyes, stepping closer. “It’s just… not what I pictured.”

“Good.” He smirks faintly, sliding a tray of dough balls onto the pan. “Keeps you guessing.”

You steal a bit of dough, popping it in your mouth before he can stop you. He turns instantly, narrowing his eyes. “That was measured.”

“Relax, Gordon Ramsay.” You grin, licking a bit of sugar off your finger.

He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath — but when you lean over to poke at another piece, his hand shoots out, catching your wrist. “Don’t.”

“Make me,” you tease.

The challenge sparks in his eyes, and before you know it, he’s swiping a streak of flour across your cheek.

You gasp. “You did not just—”

He’s already smirking. “I did.”

It escalates fast — you grab a handful of flour and toss it back at him, hitting his chest. He laughs (actually laughs), shaking his head as you dart around the counter. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist, tugging you flush against him as you squirm.

“Truce?” he asks, voice low, breath brushing your ear.

“Never,” you whisper back — but then his mouth crashes onto yours, urgent and messy, his hand still dusted with flour against your jaw.

The cookies are long forgotten, dough sitting idle on the counter while he kisses you like you’re the only recipe he ever bothered to memorise.