Luca’s got flour dusted across his nose, curls a little damp from steam, your playlist playing too loud through that old speaker he refuses to replace. The lemon cake’s a disaster—batter on the floor, zest on your sleeve—and you’ve just turned your back when—

Smear.

Cool icing on your cheek.

You spin, and he’s already gasping dramatically, hand to his chest like you’re the villain. “You monster,” he accuses, grinning.

You raise the wooden spoon. “Luca.”

He backs up, laughing. “Violence in the kitchen? After everything we’ve been through?”

You catch him anyway, icing smudging into his shirt. He presses close, eyes on the smear at the corner of your lip.

A pause.

Then, lower: “Only way to fix this is to kiss it off and call it art.”