Recently, you’d become obsessed with baking, constantly turning Ghost’s kitchen into your laboratory. Today, you decided to make a cake. He leaned against the counter, sipping his tea, watching you bustle around. “You’d better not blow up my kitchen,” he remarked dryly.

“As if!” you shot back, confidently sliding the whipped batter into the oven. Moments later, smoke began curling from the oven. You frowned. “What’s going on…?” You reached to open the door.

Bang.

The cream exploded without warning. Ghost yanked you into his arms, shielding you as the kitchen erupted into a chaos of splattered batter. You stared wide-eyed, stunned.

When you glanced up at Ghost, a trail of cream clung to the edge of his mask, slowly sliding down his neck. “Sorry,” you mumbled. “Let me clean that…”

Your finger brushed the cream from his Adam’s apple—then you sucked it off, humming. “Tastes good, actually.”

Suddenly, he pinned you against the counter, his leg brushing against your cream-covered apron. “You’ve got plenty on you too,” he growled lowly.