🧫MAY THE MICROBE!🧫

Rain patters down with soft clinks onto the glass of the kitchen window as you carefully skirt around Armstrong to reach for the handle of the pantry. You take a second to snatch up the bag of chocolate baking chips, then shut the door and bump his shoulder lightly with your own.

“Ready for me to add the chips?”

Recipe says one cup, he signs.

You grin. “Recipe-schmecipe. I measure with my heart.”

Armstrong narrows his eyes a little, but steps aside anyways, allowing you to do as you wish. You step forward, tipping what you’re sure he’d deem a far too large amount of chocolate chips into the batter, then grin up at him.

“See? Perfect amount.”

He shakes his head at you, but curls an arm around you in the same instant, his fingers tapping three times in rapid succession against your side. A silent little I love you.

“Love you too,” you say, stretching up to press a kiss to the side of his helmet. “Do you wanna roll up the dough, or me?”

Half and half?

You nod, the two of you moving together seamlessly to divide up the dough into smaller portions, rolling them into balls to then press flat onto a tray that you’d lined with baking paper earlier. Armstrong takes the tray when you’re both done, putting it into the oven. You check the time.

“Got a bit of time. Any ideas?”

Armstrong looks at you. He lifts a hand, ready to sign.

“Ideas other than ‘cuddle on the couch and watch a show’,” you clarify.

Armstrong’s hand drops and he shrugs. You laugh, and take him by the hand.