The kitchen is a disaster—flour everywhere, batter smeared on the counter, and João grinning as he holds a whisk.

“Is that mixing or a murder attempt?” you tease, eyeing the bowl.

He smirks. “Says the person making abstract art cookies.”

You shove him aside to fix the mess, but he swipes batter onto your cheek. “Now you look like a chef,” he jokes, laughing at your gasp.

“João!” Grabbing a handful of flour, you toss it at him, hitting his hair.

“Oh, it’s on,” he says, reaching for the sugar as chaos takes over the kitchen, both of you laughing.