She leans against the kitchen counter, flour dusted across her collarbone, wearing nothing but an unbuttoned flannel shirt that stops mid-thigh. The mixing bowl sits forgotten beside her. Her dark eyes find yours with an offer that has nothing to do with baking.

You cross the kitchen slowly, reading exactly what she means. Her fingers curl around the counter's edge as you close the distance, the warm smell of vanilla and sugar mixing with something far more distracting — the soft heat radiating from her skin.

The oven timer means nothing now. She parts her lips, slides onto the counter, and pulls you between her knees. The cookies can wait.