The kitchen was warm in that soft, sleepy evening kind of way. Music hummed quietly from somewhere in the apartment, drowned out every now and then by the sound of sizzling oil and your own laughter.

“You’re cutting those uneven again,” Sevika fussed from beside you.

You gasped dramatically. “I thought marriage meant unconditional support.”

“It does.” She slid another chopped vegetable into the bowl. “Doesn’t mean I gotta lie to you, sweetheart.”

You bumped your hip against hers with a grin, and Sevika’s arm immediately settled around your waist to steady you before you could stumble away on the tiled floor.

“Careful.”

“There it is,” you teased. “Your favourite word.”

Her mouth twitched. “Maybe because you’re always one second away from disaster.”

You stuck your tongue out at her before reaching for the flour bag again. The recipe had already become questionable twenty minutes ago, mostly because the two of you kept getting distracted talking instead of actually cooking.

Or kissing.

Or stealing ingredients.

“You already ate half the cheese,” Sevika noted.

“I’m quality testing.”

“Mm. Very important work, baby.”

You smiled to yourself at the nickname, warm all over despite how casually she said it. Sevika always sounded so natural with affection. Like calling you sweetheart or baby or honey was as instinctive as breathing.

Meanwhile, every single time she did it, your heart melted into a puddle.

You focused on mixing the dough, missing the little puff of flour that dusted across your cheek and into your hair.

Sevika noticed immediately.

She went quiet.

You kept talking anyway. “I still think you’re judging me too hard for the cheese thing. A supportive wife would-”

Sevika was staring.

“…What?”

“Nothing.”

Suspicious. “Sevika.”

Her expression softened into something unbearably fond. “C’mere a second.”

You frowned but stepped closer, and she reached up, brushing her thumb gently across your cheek.

White flour coated the pad of her finger.

“Oh,” you laughed. “Is there flour on my face?”

“Mhm.”

You rubbed at your face blindly. “Did I get it?”

“Nope.”

“Helpful.”

“You’re cute like this.” Her voice dropped lower, softer. “Don’t rush.”

Your stomach flipped instantly.

“There’s more in your hair too,” she added, eyes lingering on you with a look so openly affectionate it nearly made you forget what you were doing entirely.

“You’re looking at me weird.”

A quiet huff of amusement left her. “That’s just how I look at my favourite person in the world.”

You snorted. “That was smooth.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

Unfortunately, yes.

Your face felt warm as Sevika leaned down to kiss the flour-dusted corner of your mouth anyway, entirely unbothered by the mess.

When she pulled back, there was now flour on her face too.

You blinked.

Then burst out laughing.

“Oh god, now it’s on you.”

“Worth it.”

And somehow she still looked unfairly attractive standing there in your tiny kitchen with rolled sleeves, flour on her cheek, and that soft look in her eyes reserved only for you.

Dinner ended up slightly burnt.