Leah
“You just got shell in the batter.”
“Calcium.”
“That's not how that works.”
“It is in my kitchen.”
“This is my kitchen.”
“Our kitchen.”
We fell into a rhythm. He measured sugar with approximate accuracy. I sifted flour and tried not to micromanage his technique, which was generous in spirit and chaotic in execution. He found chocolate chips in a cabinet and poured half the bag directly into his mouth before adding the rest to the bowl.
“Those were for the cookies.”
“I'm quality testing.” He said it with his cheeks full, his amber eyes innocent. “They pass.”
I reached into the flour bag, gathered a handful, and threw it directly at his face.
He froze. A cloud of white powder settled over his golden hair, his eyebrows, his eyelashes. He blinked. Flour cascaded off his lashes
