“You’re a guest.”
“I’m also from the South. I know better than to sit on my butt while someone else does dishes.”
“Hard to argue with that,” I admitted, handing her a dish towel.
We fell into a rhythm at the sink—me washing, her drying. Every time our hands brushed in the handoff, a little jolt skated up my arm. The third time in a row, she looked up with a quick, helpless half-smile before schooling her face neutral again.
“Stop acting surprised,” she muttered. “I do know how to be in a kitchen.”
“I’ve seen you work in a kitchen,” I said. “Usually it’s more… high-velocity.”
“Controlled chaos,” she corrected. “You, of all people, should appreciate emergency coffee deployment.”
“I do,” I said quietly. “More than you know.”
She stilled for a second, fingers resting on the rim of the pan, then deliberately put it on the rack. “Okay. That’s as tidy as it’s gonna get. Activities?”
“Activities.” I dried my hands and grabbed the tray I’d prepped.
I brought out the cookie-decorating setup, the frosting bags, the thirty-second timer. She eyed the materials like she was preparing to perform delicate surgery.
“Rules?” she asked.
“No cursing,” I said.
She gave me a flat look. “Be serious.”
“This is a family event.”
“There are no children here.”
“Professional integrity.”
She muttered something under her breath that was absolutely not approved for a church bulletin, but she held out her hand anyway. “Timer.”
I hit start. “Three… two… one!”
She was chaos and determination compressed into human form. Frosting smeared across her knuckles, sprinkles ricocheted off the counter, her hair slipped forward and she kept flicking it away with increasingly irritable huffs. I leaned against the island, half watching the cookie and half pretending not to admire the way she moved—precise and frantic all at once, like she was trying to outperform the universe at its own game.
“Ten seconds,” I called.
“Don’t you dare countdown me,” she snapped.
The timer beeped, and she dropped the frosting bag with triumphant exhaustion. “Done.”
I looked at the cookie. It had one eye, a frown, and what I prayed was supposed to be a scarf but looked more like a crime scene.
“Wow,” I said softly. “He’s… festive.”
She bristled. “He has character.”
“He has unresolved trauma.”
“Give him a break; he was decorated under extreme duress.”
I would’ve kept teasing her, but something on her hand caught my attention—a smear of red frosting across her knuckle. Before I could think better of it, I reached out and brushed my thumb across the streak, wiping it gently away.
She froze.
