The kitchen smelled like vanilla and butter, the kind of scent that wrapped around the room like a hug. Flour dusted the countertops—and their sleeves—and somewhere along the way, a little ended up in Gracie’s hair, though she didn’t seem to notice.

Gracie stood by the mixing bowl, holding a wooden spoon with dramatic focus. “Okay, but you’re sure this isn’t too much baking soda?”

{{user}} leaned against the counter with a playful smile, licking a bit of dough off her finger. “It’s literally half a teaspoon. You’re acting like we’re defusing a bomb.”

“I just don’t want them to explode in the oven or something,” Gracie said, scrunching her nose, then glancing at her with a grin. “Though that would be kind of iconic.”

“Gracie Abrams: music genius, cookie arsonist.”

Gracie laughed, light and unfiltered, and handed over the spoon. “Your turn. I already did the hard part.”