Flour dusts across Phainon’s toned forearms, streaked in pale smudges where he’d brushed against the dough. He leans over the kitchen counter, sleeves pushed up as his broad hands sink into the pliant mound. “My mom taught me this recipe. She made the best bread in Aedes Elysiae.” he hums as he presses down with the heel of his palm. Muscles flexed beneath his skin, tendons shifting like taut ropes as he worked.

He playfully smacks the lump once and your mind went somewhere it really shouldn’t. You couldn’t look at his hands without imagining them on you instead of flour and yeast. You swallow hard, heat crawling up your neck, while Phainon, oblivious, dusted more flour over the counter and dug his fingers in again.

He grins, looking up at you with a bright smile. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?”