Chapter 108: Flour-Dusted Promises
Lisa’s POV
The kitchen smells like morning.
Not just coffee — though that’s there too — but warmth, sunshine and something quietly domestic that makes my chest ache in the best possible way. The windows are open just enough to allow a mild breeze inside, the curtains floating leisurely as if they’re exhaling along the house.
Outside, I hear the song of distant birds and the occasional car pass by, like a really back-off gentle morning soundtrack. The light is golden and hazy, streaming in, catching dust motes which whirl in the air like tiny stars.
Leo is at the counter, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair still a bit messy from sleeping, in that way that makes him look youthful, somehow gentler. He’s perusing the back of a packet of flour with the kind of intensity that usually accompanies board decisions, his brow creased in concentration.
It’s comically hot right now.
“You’re holding it wrong,” I say, perched in the doorway with my arms crossed, unable to keep the smile on my face from growing larger.
He gazes up, then squints at the packet, before treating it like a precious gem and rotating it slowly. “No, I’m not. ”
I raise a brow. “Leo.”
The man pauses, looks again, this time more attentively reading the text, and he is letting out a breath with comic resignation. “Fine. Maybe I am.”
I chuckle, the sound bounces warmly off the walls of the silent kitchen, and I push off the doorframe, walking closer across the cold tile floor. "Bake, for God's sake, for someone who signs million-dollar contracts, this shouldn't be so scary."
“Baking," he said with mock solemnity as he placed the packet on the table,"is chemistry. And chemistry goes boom."
"That’s over the top."
"That's true." He folds his arms.
I grab the measuring bowl next to him, my fingers touching the cold ceramic. "Relax. We're making just a little thing."
"That's what people say before they get killed," he mutters, but he moves away to allow me room, his hand briefly brushing my lower back as he passes — a touch so familiar it barely registers,
We now can literally dance around each other — there are no pauses or minding the step.
It's like we have constructed a language only we can understand in which we speak without talking and know without vocalizing where the other is.
When I open a cabinet, he's already climbing on tiptoe behind me for the item, his arm reaching over my head. When he turns I instinctively step back just enough so we don't thermal, nonetheless I usually want to bump into him.
Our rhythm seems rehearsed and natural, like we've been covering for years instead of just a couple of weeks. I pour the flour into the bowl and tap the spoon covertly, getting rid of excess. Leo watches intently, his arms crossed, fascinated with my every move.
"You are judging," I say without looking up.
"I'm observing, " he amend readily. "It makes a world of difference."
I look up at him, through my lashes, and catch the morning light playing in his eyes. "You don’t trust me."
"I believe you," he says, his voice softening, more earnest. "You’re overestimating gravity."
I chuckle, splitting into a smile. "That’s fair."
We just work our way down the list, the talk meandering easily — about nothing and everything. That kind of talk that doesn’t need manipulating. A remark on how calm the house is makes us laugh over how noisy it was with quiet, about the odd reassurance we’ve taken from silence.
He recounts a catastrophic cooking disaster in college that concluded with the fire alarm blasting and three hostile roommates pounding on his door at two in the morning. I mercilessly mock him, reveling in the way his ears tint a light pink.
"Don’t laugh," he says, but he’s smiling too. "I was this close to setting off the sprinklers."
"I’d have paid to see that," I say, dabbing at the corner of my eye.
He leans in, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and I catch the scent of his cologne with coffee. "Be careful. I could still be a threat in the kitchen."
"Oh, I’m shaking," I answer sarcastically, though my heart beats a little faster when I am this close to him.
I grab the baking powder, and scoop a precise amount with focused concentration. Leo leans in to take a closer look, his shoulder brushing against mine.
"Is that enough?" he asks, truly interested.
"Yes."
"It's like too much."
"Not at all."
He extends his hand, his movement confident, intercepting my hand in mid-air. His fingers slide softly against my wrist, warm and firm, and for a split second the kitchen disappears – the light, the noise, all but the constant contact of his skin and the rapid beating of my heart under where his thumb lies.
“You sure?” he says softly, his voice now lower, more intimate.
I clear my throat and my eyes widen as I realize how close he is and how I can see the little pieces of amber in his eyes and the stubble shade on his jaw. “Positive.”
His thumb grazes the inside of my wrist—it’s an unconscious gesture.
“Okay,” he says softly, his eyes linger on mine a moment too long. “I trust you.”
I tear my hand free slowly, hesitantly, and pour the powder in the bowl, trying not to dwell on how his touch had lingered, the phantom warmth still clinging to my skin.
We mix. Slowly. Together. Our hands nudge occasionally, passing the wooden spoon, like a silent companionship. At some topple, he goes for the sugar over me and I spin around at the same time forth with instinct. We collide lightly, my shoulder bumping his chest.
His hands go up instinctively, and he cradles me at the waist, his fingers splaying against the material of my shirt. "Sorry," we both say simultaneously.
I chuckle softly, lifting my head and tipping it back to look into his eyes. "We’ve got terrible personal space issues."
"Or good at pretending it’s not there," he replies, and there’s something in his eyes — warm, open, expectant — that takes my breath away.
Until I can answer, I have it.
A light poof.
A gentle puff of white rises between us like morning mist.
I momentarily blink, confused.
There's an expanding white stain on the front of my shirt, from baking powder.
I look down at myself. Then slowly, deliberately, up at him.
Leo is frozen.
"I—" he starts.
I watch him for a long moment, and let the silence hang.
Then I dip my fingers into the bowl and flick a small, deliberate handful at his chest.
It pops a little as it lands, dusting his dark shirt.
He gasps in surprise. “Lisa.”
"You started it. "
"I most certainly did not—"
I grab another handful and throw it, this time higher. His shoulder, his collarbone, a dusting across his jaw that he is both ridiculous and adorable.
He glances down at himself, unsuccessfully brushing at the powder, then up at me with a growing look of understanding.
That smile.
That leisurely, perilous grin he had as he awoke spreading on his face like the sun rising.
“You’re dead,” he says impassively, but his eyes are twinkling with mischief.
I have a breathless gasp, retreating immediately. “You wouldn’t.”
He moves forward with clear purpose.
I squeal and bolt around the counter, laughing as he lunges after me. pandemonium breaks out in the kitchen—treading of feet, laughter bouncing off the walls, the rasp of socks on the floor of tile. I snatch another handful from the bowl and toss it haphazardly over my shoulder, indifferent as to where it may fall.
“Lisa!” he laughs, narrowly avoiding the majority of it while a little lands in his hair. “This is a bad idea!”
“You love bad ideas!” I call breathlessly over my shoulder.
I slip through the island, nearly falling on a scattering of flour that’s already dusting the floor, but he’s immediately there, hands at my hips, holding me up with effortless strength. I turn away at the last moment, carving a line of white across his shirt as I break free from his hold.
"Cheater!" he scoffs, amused in his voice.
“Slow!” I shout back, laughing and breathless. I hurry around the counter again, my sides beginning to ache so badly I can hardly breathe, my hair falling loose from where I’d pulled it back earlier, laughing too much to be able to stop.
I haven’t laughed that hard in ages—totally unrestrained, completely unguarded, totally and utterly carefree. Like flying, it feels.
Then, all of the sudden — I feel arms wrap around my waist from behind, strong and certain. I yell as he raises me a little bit off the ground, twirling us both around until the small of my back is against the counter. The bowl falls harmlessly to the side with a clatter, and they're just reminded.
"Got you," he says, breath warm against my ear, and I can hear the joy and love layered within his tone.
I'm laughing too much to answer, and my hands automatically grab his arms, and I can feel the solid muscle through his shirt. I'm breathing fast, and my heart is beating up—not just from the running.
"You're unfairly strong," I say between gasps.
"And you're unfairly distracting," he says, his voice softer, more vulnerable.
Now we're both covered in white - my shirt is smudged with handprints and patches of powder, and streaks of white can be seen in his hair, while our hands are unnaturally pale. We look ridiculous. We look perfect.
Our laughter turns to soft knowing smiles that light up our eyes and dim something more latent.
His hands are still on my waist, warm through my clothes. I press my hands against his chest and feel his strong racing heart under my palms.
For just a moment we simply look at one another - flushed and breathless from exertion and something else, as though the distance between us were electric, her eyes lit with joy and desire, and mine contained a similar fire.
Then he leans in too close. The kiss is warm, full, and unhurried. Not tentative. Not cautious. His lips against mine with familiarity and promise and a delicious taste of coffee and laughter and something sweet beneath it all – hope, maybe, or happiness, or home.
I fold into him, clutching the fabric of his shirt with my fingers.
When we eventually break apart, neither of us ready to but desperate for air, our foreheads rest together, breaths mingled.
"Worth it?" he whispers against my lips.
I grin, can’t help it. “Absolutely.”
He looks around at the chaos — the powder on the counter like fresh snow, the floor dusted white, our clothes beyond saving — and then at me, eyes dark with fondness and something that really looks like love.
“Let’s bring this inside,” he says softly.
I nod, my heart full to bursting.
Arm in arm, still smiling and still dusted in white as though winter has trailed us, we go out from the kitchen.