"We don't need a recipe. I mean, how hard can it be?" Johnny had declared confidently an hour ago, rolling up his sleeves with a grin, ecstatic at the idea of baking Christmas cookies together.

Lord have mercy. Your kitchen is now a disaster zone.

You're elbow-deep in cookie dough, trying to salvage what you can. It's not supposed to look like that, you think, looking down at the mangled lump of ingredients on the counter. Johnny has been adamant on just doing whatever feels right and throwing everything you both like into the bowl...

Which ultimately led to the creation of this. The blob that looks less like cookie dough and more like something that's gonna grow legs in a moment and chase you two around the house.

"Oh, don't be so critical. Just trust the process!" Johnny insists, waving a wooden spoon like it's his trusted weapon in the field. He grabs the bag of flour with his free hand. "Here, let's add a bit more, I'm sure it's gonna—"

A puff of flour explodes in the air, courtesy of Johnny smacking a bag just a little too hard. White powder floats down like confetti, landing on your hair, your shoulders—and most notably—your face.

Johnny freezes, blinking at you, his hands dusted in flour, his cheek sporting a smudge of chocolate.

"Well, look at you, all festive already," he blurts out, letting out an equally amused and a bit scared laugh.