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Summary: You and Carlos try to make bread. (Try being the keyword in the sentence)
Warning(s): Mild Language, Food fight. Lots of fluff. Carlos being adorable, small surprise.
“You’re my favorite part of the day.”
The kitchen was chaos even before things really got started.
The counter was covered with random ingredients: flour spilling out of its bag, eggs rolling dangerously close to the edge, and a stick of butter that was somehow already melting.
Carlos stood at the counter, looking like he was auditioning for a cooking show, his sleeves rolled up and his face radiating confidence.
You, on the other hand, were leaning against the fridge, reading the recipe aloud like it was in a foreign language. “Okay, step one: ‘Combine the yeast with warm water and a pinch of sugar.’”
Carlos turned to you, raising an eyebrow. “You do know what yeast is, right?”
You gave him a look of pure indignation. “Of course I know what yeast is! It’s… uh…” You gestured vaguely at the counter. “One of these...things.”
Carlos sighed dramatically and pointed at the little packet labeled ‘yeast.’ “It’s this.”
“Ah, yes,” you said, picking it up and squinting at it. “This tiny thing is going to make the dough rise? Sounds fake, but okay.”
“You’re fake,” he shot back, snatching it from your hand.
"Hey!" You pouted at him, he kissed your forehead as an apology and you rolled your eyes at him, getting to work.
Things started out well enough. You worked side by side, mixing and measuring while Carlos threw out unnecessary cooking tips.
“Don’t overmix the dough,” he said, peering into your bowl like a judgmental hawk. “You’ll kill the air.”
“I'll overmix your face,” you muttered, kneading the dough with a vengeance.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Amor,” he said, eyeing you like you were a grenade about to go off. “This is not how you bake bread.”
You grinned, holding up a ball of dough that was, admittedly, more glue than anything else. “This is exactly how you bake bread. Look, I’m bonding with it. You wouldn’t understand.”
Carlos pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something in Spanish that you were sure was an insult. “You’re not bonding with it; you’re murdering it. What did that dough ever do to you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” you said innocently, shaping the lump into what could generously be called a ball. “It called me slow.”
Carlos groaned, dropping the spoon onto the counter. “I don’t even know why I agreed to this.”
“Because you love the fuck out of me,” you replied smugly, tossing the dough into a bowl with a triumphant flair.
"I do love the fuck out of you" Carlos said laughing as he leaned over, inspecting the dough with a critical eye.
“Not bad,” he admitted, sounding almost impressed. “For someone who thought yeast was a spice.”
“Careful,” you said, pointing at him with a flour-covered finger. “That’s the kind of attitude that gets flour in your hair.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” he said, stepping back.
“I might, so don't try me, Sainz” you replied sweetly. “But first, the oven. Step aside, chef.”
Carlos rolled his eyes but opened the oven door, letting you slide the tray in with exaggerated grace. You closed the door with a flourish, dusting off your hands like you’d just won The Great British Bake Off.
“Done and dusted,” you announced.
“Now we wait.”
_____________________________
It didn’t take long for things to go south.
Carlos leaned against the counter, watching you fiddle with the remaining flour. “You know, for someone who talks a big game, you’re surprisingly messy.”
You smirked, scooping a handful of flour into your palm. “Messy, huh?”
“Yes,” he said, crossing his arms. “And you’re—”
He didn’t get to finish, because that was the exact moment you threw the flour in his face. It hit him like a puff of smoke, coating his hair and shirt in white.
For a second, he just stood there, blinking through the cloud.
Then he slowly wiped his face and looked at you.
“You’re dead.”
You barely had time to dodge before he grabbed a handful of butter and smeared it across your cheek.
“Carlos!” you shouted, laughing as you tried to escape. “That’s so gross!”
“Payback,” he said smugly, grabbing an egg and cracking it in your general direction.
The egg missed you entirely and splattered on the floor, but you were too busy laughing to care. “Nice aim, chef. Were you aiming for me or the floor?”
“Keep talking,” he said, reaching for the sugar. “See what happens.”
Before he could do any real damage, you grabbed a handful of dough and lobbed it at him. It hit his shoulder with a satisfying splat, and he let out a dramatic groan.
“You’ve ruined my shirt,” he said, looking at the sticky dough like it was a personal insult.
“It’s an improvement,” you quipped, reaching slowly for an egg.
Carlos retaliated with a handful of flour aimed at your face, which you dodged—barely. In response, you grabbed the egg and cracked it over his head. He froze as the yolk dripped into his hair, his eyes wide with disbelief.
“¿Estás loca?” he shouted, but he was already laughing.
“Crazy for you, baby,” you replied sweetly, smearing a glob of dough from his shirt, across his cheek, for good measure.
Carlos lunged for you, slipping slightly on the flour-covered floor but still managing to grab a handful of butter again. He rubbed it into your hair, grinning like a man who’d just won a championship.
“Carlos!” you shrieked, trying to duck away, but it was too late. “You’re such a—”
“A genius?” he finished for you, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “I know.”
“Menace,” you corrected, grabbing a handful of sugar and tossing it at him. It missed, mostly, but some of it stuck to his flour and dough-covered shirt.
By the time the fight ended, the two of you were a mess. You collapsed onto the floor, laughing so hard your sides hurt. Carlos sat behind you, pulling you into his lap as you leaned back against him. His arms wrapped around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder.
“You’re impossible,” he said, but there was no heat to his words.
“You love it,” you replied, tilting your head to nuzzle against his cheek.
“Maybe,” he admitted, his voice soft and teasing.
You both sat there for a while, catching your breath amidst the chaos. You could feel the stickiness of the dough on your hands, the butter in your hair, and the flour clinging to your skin.
It should’ve been uncomfortable, but instead, it was perfect.
________________________
The timer dinged, breaking the moment.
“Carlos,” you said, nudging him. “The bun is done. Go get it.”
“You get it,” he countered. “You’re the one who wanted to bake.”
“You’re the one who started the food fight.”
“Technically, you started it,” he pointed out.
You gave him a look. “Carlos, there’s an egg yolk in your hair. I think you’ve lost the moral high ground here.”
With a sigh, he got up and made his way to the oven. You watched as he pulled out the tray, setting it on the counter before turning to you with a triumphant grin.
“It looks good,” he said. “I mean, considering... you.”
You rolled your eyes, getting up and brushing flour off your legs.
“What’s in the oven, Carlos?”
He frowned, confused. “What do you mean? It’s a bun.”
You stared at him, deadpan. “A what?”
“A bun,” he repeated as if you were slow. “In the oven.”
Your expression didn’t change. “A bun in the oven?”
His eyes narrowed, like he knew he was missing something but couldn’t figure out what. “Yes. A bun in the—” He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes going wide as realization hit him. “Wait. Are you saying—”
You raised an eyebrow, trying not to laugh.
“Are you—” He pointed at you, then the oven, then back at you. “Are you serious?”
You nodded, biting your lip to keep from grinning too hard.
“A bun in the oven?” he repeats again, his voice rising slightly with disbelief. “Like—a real one?”
You shrugged, trying so hard to stop yourself from laughing at his face.
Carlos set the tray down with a clatter and crossed the room in two quick strides, grabbing your shoulders as he looked at you with wide, disbelieving eyes. “You’re pregnant?”
“Surprise,” you said, grinning.
For a moment, he just stared at you, and then he pulled you into a tight hug, lifting you off the ground as he spun you around. You laughed, holding onto him as he buried his face in your neck.
“Mi amor,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re incredible. This is amazing. Mi vida, you’re amazing.”
“And you’re covered in flour,” you teased, but your heart was so full you couldn’t stop smiling and tears were already making themselves known.
Carlos laughed with his own tears, wiping a streak of dough from your cheek. “Worth it.”
___________________________
Bonus scene:
The kitchen still smelled faintly of burnt bread and chaos. You stood across from Carlos at the small table, both of you staring down at the loaf you’d somehow managed to create after hours of effort and a small war involving flour and eggs.
It looked good enough—a golden crust, warm and inviting.
Carlos reached over, slicing a piece with the same careful attention he gave a race line. He handed it to you with an encouraging smile, his dark eyes warm and soft. “Try it first, mi amor. I promise it won’t bite back.”
You raised a brow. “If it’s anything like you in the kitchen, I’m not so sure anymore.”
Carlos smirked, his dark eyes sparkling. “Mi amor, when have I ever let you down?”
“Well,” you started, a teasing lilt in your voice, “there was that time you said you’d teach me to cook—”
“—and you haven’t learned a thing,” he interrupted, stepping closer, his large hands settling on your waist. “Because you’re too busy being a menace.”
“A lovable menace,” you corrected with a grin.
“The most lovable,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. His lips lingered for a moment, and when he pulled back, his expression was softer. “Now, sit down. You’ve been on your feet this whole time, and that’s not happening anymore.”
You rolled your eyes but allowed him to guide you to a chair. “Carlos, I’m fine. I can stand.”
“You can,” he agreed, crouching down in front of you, his hands bracketing your knees. “But you don’t have to. Let me take care of you, okay?”
Your heart melted a little at the tenderness in his voice. “Okay.”
He stood, brushing his thumb gently along your jawline before returning to the bread. He sits down after taking a slice for himself, and looks at you.
You were looking at the bread with uncertainty.
His lips twitched, but he leaned in, resting his chin on his hand, his tone playful. “Eat. I’ll judge after you do.”
“Fine,” you muttered, taking a cautious bite. As soon as it touched your tongue, your expression twisted into something resembling horror.
Carlos’s smile faltered. “That bad?”
You swallowed hard, grabbing for water like your life depended on it. “Worse. Carlos, this tastes like… disappointment.”
He reached for his slice, taking a bite, and immediately set it down with a slow exhale. “Madre mía, what did we do to deserve this?”
You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. “How did we mess this up so badly? We had one job!”
Carlos dropped his slice onto his plate, shaking his head. “Forget bread. Pancakes. We’re sticking to pancakes from now on.”
“Agreed,” you said, still laughing, " And also my pregnancy cravings, I haven't gotten any yet, but I'm sure I'll make your life hell with them." You winked at him.
Carlos kissed you then, slow and deliberate, as if trying to savor the moment. When he finally pulled away, his grin returned. “Forget pancakes then. I’ll make you anything you want, every day, forever.”
“Anything but bread,” you teased, your laughter mixing with his as he hugged you close again, his warmth and love wrapping around you like a blanket.
________________________________
Thank you for reading!
I saw a picture of Carlos making pancakes and got this idea. And I'm also having baby fever, so I was like, why not combine them? And Viola! Did the pregnancy come as a surprise?
If you liked this story, please reblog, leave a like and a comment.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
