Annie sits cross-legged on the floor, munching a piece of bacon. She blinks.
I gesture to the containers of milk. “Beginning with dairy: cow’s milk contains both lipids and casein proteins. These molecules act as binding agents with bitter compounds—specifically chlorogenic acid lactones and phenylindanes—found in medium to dark roasted coffees. This binding action counteracts the bitterness. Whole milk provides superior mouthfeel and flavor longevity because of its higher fat content. Skim milk provides minimal effect.”
“So does this video,” I think I hear Annie mutter.
I move on to the oat milk. “Now, with plant-based alternatives, oat milk has the most favorable emulsification characteristics because of its beta-glucan content. The viscosity creates a mouth-coating texture that simulates dairy while adding a toasted, carby sweetness.”
Annie is now lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling.
“Soy milk contains a higher percentage of protein relative to other non-dairy options, theoretically enabling similar binding reactions. However, its interaction with acidity at high temperatures results in a higher likelihood of precipitation, which is curdling.”
“Are you being punished? Blink twice if this is a hostage situation,” she whispers.
“I’m sorry,” I can’t help but cut in. “Is something wrong, dear sous-chef of mine?”
“This isn’t working for me the way I thought it would,” she mutters.
“Hundreds of thousands of my fuckin’ followers might disagree with you,” I shoot back.
“Well, it sucks,” she declares.
“Not according to the paycheck.”
She stands up suddenly.
Strolls over to me, swaying her hips. Strokes the skin under my belly button on her way past.
I cough.
I don’t know what the hell I was expecting, but I am not prepared for this: the sight of her standing naked in my kitchen, light slanting through the blinds and catching on her tattooed skin like she’s been shellacked in gold.
She dips those two fingers into the jar on the counter. Love and a little bit of chaos. Brings them to her mouth and licks.
My neurons fire. All of them. At once. I can practically feel the synaptic overload—dopamine, norepinephrine, complete hormonal cascade. It's not fair.
“Tell me more about this,” she says, licking a second slow spiral off her finger, like she doesn’t already know she’s short-circuiting my prefrontal cortex.
“Honey?” I croak.
“You said it’s super-something?”
Right. Supersaturated. Focus, Nico.
“Supersaturated solution,” I manage, voice automatically slipping into my practiced academic cadence. Safe ground. “Primarily glucose and fructose. Hygroscopic. Antimicrobial. It doesn't spoil because it?—”
She sighs, loud and dramatic. Leans against the counter and casual as anything, drags a slow, gleaming smear of honey across her collarbone.
I freeze.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I have a fuckin’ doctorate in this shit—these words are supposed to be my thing. But right now? Nothing in my brain works except the primal throb of want. I blink. Swallow. Try to remember the bullet points I had queued up in my head—viscosity, hygroscopicity, aromatic stability—but they all dissolve in the heat of watching the sticky shimmer spread on her skin.
She raises an eyebrow, challenging. Playful and powerful.
And just like that, something clicks.
Annie reads it, too, ‘cause that’s what she’s fuckin’ good at. So she presses on, dipping her fingers in the jar again, this time rubbing a stripe of honey over one pierced nipple—slow, deliberate, ‘cause she knows I’m already two seconds from losing it. Then the other.
My jaw clenches so hard it aches. So does my dick.
