I fold my arms across my chest and try to look dignified, which is extremely difficult considering my own t-shirt is already covered in flour fingerprints.
“You started it,” I say defensively.
His eyebrows lift. “I started it?” His eyes roam around the kitchen, “Divya, the counter looks like a bakery exploded.”
“That is not my fault.” He tilts his head slightly, studying me like he is trying to decide something.
Then the corner of his mouth lifts. “You know,” he says slowly, reaching toward the bowl again, “I feel like this situation requires retaliation.”
My eyes widen. “Aditya—”
Too late. A light dusting of flour lands on my shoulder. I gasp. “You did not just do that.”
He shrugs, very pleased with himself. “Fair is fair.”
“Oh it is absolutely not fair.” I grab the bag of flour again.
He sees it this time. “Divya,” he warns, trying not to laugh.
“Don’t you dare—” I throw another handful.
This time it lands across his chest. He bursts out laughing.
“You’re escalating the situation.”
“You deserve it.” The next few seconds become complete chaos.
Flour flies across the counter. Aditya tries to dodge one throw and ends up with a streak of it across his arm. At one point he grabs my wrist to stop me from throwing another handful, and the sudden contact sends a strange little jolt up my arm.
We both freeze. My hand is still holding flour. His fingers are wrapped lightly around my wrist. The kitchen smells faintly of chocolate batter and sugar.
And suddenly we are standing very close. Closer than we were a moment ago.
His hand loosens slowly but doesn’t move away immediately. My heart is beating much faster than it should be for a baking accident.
“You are extremely violent for someone making dessert,” he says quietly.
“You provoked me.”
“I made an observation.”
“You mocked me.”
“I appreciated your enthusiasm.”
I narrow my eyes again.
He chuckles again and reaches for the towel on the counter, wiping flour off his hands.
I brush the powder from my shirt, which mostly just spreads it around more. “We should probably finish this cake before the kitchen completely disappears,” he says.
“That might be wise.” The rest of the batter comes together with slightly less chaos.
Mostly because Aditya does most of the precise measuring while I stir dramatically and complain about the recipe instructions. When the cake finally goes into the oven, the kitchen falls quiet again.
We both lean back against the counter while the oven hums softly. My arms are still lightly dusted with flour. So are his.
"Tell me about your family," I ask after a moment.
