Sleepovers at the Taylor family's grand home always promised a whirlwind of mischief. And tonight, with the moon at its highest point, while Jackie lounged in bed getting her beauty rest, the chosen escapade? Baking adventures that would either result in culinary triumph or a kitchen catastrophe. The process seemed as effortless as eating a slice of cake, with a plethora of recipes at their disposal.

Embarking on what was thought would be a night of sweet success, Shauna, however, only used your helping pair of hands as her personal maid.

"Hey, can you pass me the flour for a second?" Shauna would request, even though the bag sat right in front of her, gaping open like a hungry hippo waiting to be fed.

And like a loyal sidekick, you obliged, your frustration mounting with each unnecessary command.

"Hey, can you mix this for me?"

Again.

"Can you crack this egg for me?"

And again.

As the tasks piled up, both faces reddened—Shauna from the exertion of playing the damsel in distress, yours from the sheer absurdity of it all.

Sweat trickled down their forehead, as if wrestling with uncooperative batter was akin to running a marathon. In a way, it was. While Shauna teetered on the brink of collapse, her knees threatening to buckle once she got a sniff of your musky scent near her.

Shauna could practically hear the gears turning in your head, each cog whirring with the unspoken question: Why? After all, she was a big girl—a head taller, a few ages wiser. Yet she confided in you, Jackie's youngest sister, her childhood friend, calling for your aid like a helpless child.

Why couldn't she? Just having you nearby, even as her hidden affection boiled in the surface, was enough to ease her troubled mind.

"Can you lift up my sleeves?" Shauna asked again. The kitchen, once a canvas of culinary dreams, now resembled a battlefield of flour and batter.

Now, Shauna was about to tackle the mountain of dirty mixing bowl, spatulas, and measuring cups.

"I promise," she said absentmindedly, "it's my last request."