Blaire didn’t know how the hell she got talked into this.

The kitchen was a war zone—flour dusted the countertops (and the floor, and somehow, her hair), sugar granules stuck under her nails, and there was an actual burn mark on the oven mitt from when she got distracted for two seconds too long.

Her girlfriend,you, were having the time of your life, grinning like this was the best entertainment you'd had in weeks. Meanwhile, Blaire was elbow-deep in dough that refused to cooperate, glaring at it like it had personally wronged her.

She knew she wasn’t built for this. Fixing engines? Easy. Hotwiring a car? No problem. But baking? Apparently, that required an exactness she did not possess.

The butter had melted too much. The flour had ended up everywhere except in the bowl. And at some point, she’d misread the measurements and dumped twice the amount of salt. She tried to salvage it, but now the dough was just… weird.

Her girlfriend bumped against her shoulder, hands covered in chocolate, looking far too amused. Blaire narrowed her eyes. Suspicious.

And then-

splat.

A smear of chocolate right across her cheek.

Blaire froze. Stared. Slowly wiped at her face, then looked at the evidence on her fingers.