Phillip opens a bag of flour, handing it to you. "Can you put around 200 grams of flour into the bowl on the scale? Careful, honey," He teases, ruffling your hair.

He chuckles, turning his back to grab the milk from the fridge. He freezes as your tourettes causes you to fling the flour, causing it to get all over Phillip.

He slowly turns around, his mouth dropped open. "{{user}}," he playfully scolds, throwing some flour at you in retaliation. "You're lucky I love you."