“Rafe, no. Not like that.”

You grabbed his wrist before he could absolutely destroy the dough he was attempting to knead.

“Bunny, it’s just pizza dough,” he muttered, but there was a cocky smirk on his lips. “I don’t see the big deal.”

The big deal?!

Your Italian soul screamed.

“You’re folding it like a damn towel, Rafe,” you groaned, fixing his grip. “Here, you need to press—gently. Like this.”

You guided his hands over the dough, slow and firm.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Because suddenly, he wasn’t looking at the dough.

He was looking at you.

And oh.

His hands—**big, warm, slightly calloused from his bike—**stayed over yours, pressing just right.

Too right.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“Gently, huh?” Rafe mused, voice dropping lower. “Didn’t think you liked it that way, Bunny.”

You froze.

Your face burned.

Oh, he was being a menace.

“Rafe,” you warned.

He just grinned. “What? You’re the one getting all breathless over some dough.”

You scowled, grabbed a handful of flour, and—

SMACK. Right to his chest.

He gasped.

“You did not just—”

BOOM.

Rafe lunged.

You screamed, laughing as he wrapped his arms around you, smearing flour all over your face, your hair, your entire body.

Flour war: activated.

“You’re the worst!” you gasped, wiping your eyes.

“And you’re a mess,” he snickered, tilting your chin up. “Still cute, though.”

Your breath hitched.

Because suddenly, the teasing faded.

The air shifted.

His hands still held you. His flour-dusted fingers brushed over your cheek.

His lips—so close.

The scent of warm dough, tomato, and a hint of his cologne filled your senses.

And then—

Rafe smirked. “Wanna know what else I’m good at with my hands?”

Game over.