“Didi,” he whines immediately. “What did I say about calling me cute?”
I shrug innocently. “What can I do? You are cute.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
He huffs. I kiss his forehead once more. “Good night, buddy.”
“Good night, didi.”
His smile lingers even as he rolls over and pulls the blanket closer. I switch off the main light, leaving only the soft night lamp glowing beside him.
When I close his door quietly and walk back into the living room, the house feels calmer. Still.
The soft clink of metal reaches my ears before I even see him. Aditya is standing in the kitchen. His back is turned toward me as he looks down at something on the counter, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms like he always does when he’s cooking.
He turns almost immediately, like he sensed me standing there. When his eyes land on me, he smiles. “I have a better idea,” he says quietly.
“What?”
He gestures toward the kitchen counter. “Let’s bake the damn cake.”
My eyes widen instantly. “Are you mad?” I look at him flabbergasted, “I can barely cook and you want me to bake?”
He chuckles, leaning casually against the counter. “It’s not as hard as you think.” His eyes soften, “I promise.” I look from his face to the ingredients already spread across the counter.
“You planned this.”
“I prepared for the possibility,” he corrects. "Choice is yours, we can go out too." He cocks his head and I groan.
“This is going to end in disaster.”
He hands me a mixing bowl, smiling brightly now, enough to make me smile too. “Trust me.” I feign a sigh but take it.
It takes less than ten minutes for the kitchen to descend into complete chaos.
What started as a very reasonable, civilized plan—two adults baking a simple chocolate cake—has somehow turned into something that looks like a storm passed through the room.
There is flour on the counter. Flour on the floor. Flour on my hands. A suspicious dusting of it on the edge of the stove.
And now, apparently, sugar all over the place too. I stare down at the measuring cup in my hand, horrified. I had been trying to pour exactly half a cup of sugar into the bowl like the recipe instructed. Somehow the bowl is now overflowing while a generous amount has also landed on the counter.
Behind me, Aditya starts laughing. Not the polite, controlled kind of laugh he usually has. This one is full and completely unrestrained. “You were right,” he says, still laughing as he looks around the kitchen. “This is a disaster.”
I whip my head toward him. “Excuse me?”
He raises both hands innocently, but the amusement in his eyes makes it very clear he is enjoying this far too much.
“You said it might end in disaster,” he continues calmly. “I was simply agreeing.”
“Oh really?” I narrow my eyes at him.
“Yes, really.”
I grab the nearest thing within reach—which happens to be a small handful of flour—and throw it at him. It hits his t-shirt with a soft puff.
Aditya freezes. For one glorious second the kitchen goes completely silent. Then he looks down at the white powder now decorating his shirt. Slowly. Very slowly. He looks back up at me.
