Simon walks down the stairs, already swinging the door to the kitchen open, having left your brother upstairs playing – and losing Fifa – and he pauses when he sees you. You’re Kyle’s younger sister by two years or something, and there you are, bare-footed, in a loose sweatshirt that’s slipping off your shoulders and flour smudged over your cheek.

"Didn’t know you baked,” Simon mutters as you roll out the dough into even strokes, the scent of cinnamon and sugar thick in the warm kitchen air. The fridge door swings open, a bottle of water hissing as it’s cracked open.

You were an interesting little thing – way too fucking sweet but with a little zing to you, a little sass that makes him smirk when he hears you tell off your older brother. He’s been friends with Kyle for years, and he’s always kept an eye out for you, just in case you get into trouble which was rare.

You shrug. "Bake sale,” you supply as Simon leans against the counter, water bottle dangling from his fingers, his usual black t-shirt and cargo pants still slightly rumpled like he didn’t bother fixing them after sprawling out on your brother’s floor.

Simon tilts his head slightly, considering. "Didn’t take you for the domestic type."

You scoff at that, shooting him a look as you cut the dough into even pieces, ignoring the way his voice settles under your skin. "What do you want, Riley?"

"Water," he shrugs, then tilts his head. "And maybe one of those, when they’re done."

"You didn’t even ask," you scoff.

"Didn’t think I had to."

You roll your eyes but there’s a slight, ever so slight smile at the corner of your lips.

“Help me make the cinnamon rolls and I’ll consider it,” you mutter as you plop some of the dough in front of him on the counter, already beginning to form your own into swirls. Simon arches a brow at that, glancing abc at the door to the kitchen. Kyle's probably waiting for him to play another round of Fifa upstairs, but Simon just rolls his sleeves up.

"Go on then, teach me," Simon mutters as he stands next to you.