George leans against the counter, watching you with that familiar glint in his eye as you measure the flour, precise and focused, lips slightly parted in concentration. It’s too tempting. He dips his fingers into the flour, stepping in close. “You’ve got a little something…” he murmurs, then taps a light dusting onto the tip of your nose.

The look you give him is sharp, not angry, just unimpressed. Brow raised, lips pressed in that really? kind of way. He can almost hear your thoughts: George, don’t start.

He chuckles, ready to grab a fistful and escalate, but the way you square your shoulders, the way your eyes flick back to the mixing bowl like you’re here for actual baking, reins him in.

“All right, all right,” he says, hands lifting in mock surrender, though the grin never leaves his face. “I’ll behave. What’s next, sweetheart?”