It was the holidays, which meant an unholy amount of cooking. Graves offered to bake the pies for you the night before, trying to take some stress off of your plate. What neither of you knew was that he was a terrible baker.

You walked into your kitchen to find flour everywhere, a frustrated look on his face as he fought with the dough for the crust.

"Sunuvabitch," Graves grumbled to himself, trying to get the sticky, poorly made dough off of his hands.