Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Zoey doesn’t have many practical skills.

She can write and sing, but that’s only because she spent every day doing it.

Back in America, writing was her only escape. Her only form of expression. Singing was the instrument that allowed her to express it fully. Her dad never understood it, but he never looked down on her for it. Her mom didn’t either.

Writing and singing was her sanctuary—a world where she can be unapologetically herself.

But outside of that, Zoey never really explored what else she could do.

Her eyes drifted to the notebook in her lap; the pages filled with lyrics and half-finished stories that felt like fragments of her soul. As she traced the edges of the worn paper, a sudden thought struck her.

‘What else could I do?’ The question echoed softly in the air that offered no response.

The warmth of the afternoon sun filtered through the window, and she thought about the kitchen back home. Memories of her mom cooking wholesome meals wafted through her mind—simmering sauces, the sizzle of vegetables in a pan. She had always watched from a distance, too absorbed in her writing and singing to step in and learn.

That’s when Zoey realized something. She doesn’t know how to cook.

Cooking, huh? The thought felt foreign and exciting. She never tried it, but as her gaze lingered on the kitchen, a wave of determination washed over her. What if she took a leap of faith and surprised Rumi with a home-cooked meal?

The idea ignited a spark inside her. Rumi had always cherished the small gestures, and Zoey could vividly imagine the look of surprise and joy on her face as she savored something crafted with love.

What could go wrong?

She chuckled to herself, envisioning the excitement of her culinary adventure. Perhaps it would be a challenge, but the thought of creating a beautiful memory made her heart race with anticipation. With a spark of determination at the idea of impressing Rumi, Zoey stood up, ready to dive into the unknown world of cooking.

And she already had the perfect dish to make in mind. Homemade Fettuccine Alfredo.

She just needs to the store to get the necessary ingredients.

…

Zoey doesn’t have many practical skills. And reading instructions is one of them. She would come to realize that.

The first step was to make the dough, or fresh pasta as the recipe said.

Zoey needed to make a mountain of flour on the kitchen counter—just one cup, according to the recipe. She marched over to the cabinet like a pro and grabbed one of her favorite drinking cups, filling it to the top with flour from a bag she found in the pantry.

She didn’t notice the big ‘self-rising flour’ label. With a carefree flick of her wrist, she dumped the flour onto the counter, completely unaware that she might have just set herself up for a baking disaster. Shen then proceeded to make a little crater in the middle.

Next, she needed two large eggs.

She cracked the egg open and added it to the crater, feeling like a true culinary artist. Now the instructions told her to use a fork to beat it.

“Beat it? Like a drum?” Zoey frowned, looking around for a band.

The recipe said to beat it with a fork, and for a moment, Zoey went full-on gladiator mode, jabbing at the egg like it had just insulted her favorite song. “Take that, you slimy little bastard!”

But as she furiously poked and prodded, she noticed something. The flour was actually starting to absorb the egg, transforming into a slightly gooey mess. “Wait a minute, is this what they meant by ‘beating’?”

With a sudden realization, she switched gears, gently mixing instead. The dough was still lumpy and far from perfect, but at least it looked like it was cooperating now. She chuckled to herself, “Can’t wait to surprise Rumi with this.”

Next, the instructions told her to fold the dough and add more flour if it still felt sticky. Sounds simple enough. But what did it mean by ‘fold the dough’?

Zoey stared at her lumpy creation, contemplating. “Fold? Like a piece of laundry? Am I supposed to tuck it into bed?” She shook her head, trying to make sense of it all. “Do I need a tablecloth? Maybe some origami skills?”

After a moment of pondering, she decided to give it a go. She picked up the dough and awkwardly tried to fold it over itself like a giant, sticky omelet. Instead of cooperating, it squished out of her hands like a rebellious little monster. “Okay, dough, let’s not play hard to get!”

Finally, in a moment of desperate inspiration, she tried to fold it again, this time tossing it back into the bowl with a flourish. “Ta-da! Dough, folded!” she declared, even though it looked more like a doughy crime scene.

“Now, if only I could figure out how to make it stop feeling sticky,” she sighed, eyeing the flour bag like it was a magic potion.

Determined not to back down, Zoey grabbed the flour bag like it was a trophy. “Alright, flour, let’s see if we can save this disaster.” She sprinkled more flour onto the dough, feeling like a wizard casting a spell. “Flour, flour, make this dough less gooey!”

The dough, however, seemed to have its own ideas. It squished and resisted, almost like it was rolling its eyes at her. “Seriously? I’m trying to help you! We have a special dinner to prepare here!”

After what felt like a wrestling match with a particularly stubborn dough monster, she finally managed to get it to a somewhat manageable consistency. “There! I’m basically a professional chef now,” she proclaimed, puffing out her chest with pride—even if the dough was still revolting against her efforts.

Zoey stood tall and proud, face covered in flour like a baking Yeti, her shirt a chaotic canvas that could easily make a case for abstract art.

Alright, on to the second step!

She squinted at the instructions, which now told her she needed to divide the dough. Then flatten it. “Sounds doable,” she muttered. “But wait, flatten? Do I need to jump on it? Like a dog pile? That doesn’t sound practical...”

She looked around the kitchen, hoping to find some magical tool that would help. Her eyes then landed on a wine bottle sitting on the counter. “Well, this looks like it’ll do the trick!” she declared, grabbing the bottle like a knight wielding a sword, convinced this was the answer to her dough-flattening dreams.

“Let’s do this, Merlot!” she exclaimed, plopping the dough down on the counter and rolling the bottle over it. The dough squished and spread, but as she pushed down a little too hard, the bottle slipped from her grip and crashed onto the counter.

“Oops!” she squeaked, watching in horror as the bottle shattered, red wine spraying everywhere like a festive confetti cannon. The dough soaked up the wine like a sponge, turning into a red sticky, gooey mess. “Well, that’s one way to add flavor!”

“Okay, I can salvage this.” Zoey picked up some glass shards. “I think.” Her heart raced as she carefully examined the scattered pieces, trying to channel her inner surgeon. “This is definitely not in the recipe,” she muttered, cursing her lack of kitchen safety training.

As she picked up the shards and set them aside and glanced back at the win-soaked dough. It looked something out of a horror movie, drenched in crimson. “Well, it certainly have character.” she mused before making sure that the area was free of glass before going back to the dough.

As she got messy again, and started kneading the dough, it squished between her fingers, like a rebellious toddler refusing to cooperate. “You’re going to be a masterpiece, I promise!” she coaxed, picturing Rumi’s surprised expression when she took a bite. “Or at least a conversation starter...”

With newfound determination, Zoey shaped the dough into a rough ball and decided to roll it out again, trying to ignore the sticky mess that was forming all around her. “If life gives you wine, make pasta, right?” she chuckled, feeling a bit more confident despite the chaos.

“Alright, what’s the next step?” Zoey muttered as she checked the instructions. It said to divide the mound in half and keep one covered to prevent it from drying out. “And dust my hands with flour? Because that’s exactly what I need—more flour on my already flour-covered shirt,” she rolled her eyes.

Then she saw the next part. “Machine?” she said, squinting at the recipe like it was written in ancient hieroglyphics. “I need a machine? What machine? Is it a robot chef? Am I supposed to summon the Pasta Gods?”

She read the article again, and it didn’t mention any machine. “Is the machine to cut it into strips? Do I need to hire a tiny pasta-slicing ninja?”

With a shrug and a shake of her head, she decided to forge ahead. “Alright, let’s chop this dough like a pro!” she declared, looking for something—anything—that could help her.

Just then, she spotted a pair of kitchen scissors on the counter. “Perfect! Scissors it is!” With a dramatic flourish, she snatched them up, feeling like a culinary warrior ready to conquer her dough.

“Let’s do this!” she proclaimed, and proceeded to cut the dough in half...except she accidentally snipped the whole thing into random chunks instead. “Well, that’s... not exactly what I had in mind,” she laughed. “I’m creating a dough monster. Is this how pasta is born?”

With a chuckle still lingering on her lips, Zoey examined the chaotic pile of dough chunks scattered before her. “Alright, dough monster, let’s see what you’ve got!” she said, a spark of inspiration igniting in her eyes.

She picked up one of the larger chunks, rolling it between her palms like a little doughy ball. “If I can’t cut you into perfect strips, I’ll just have to roll you into submission!” With determination, she pressed it flat on the counter, then began stretching and rolling it out, her fingers working their magic.

The dough was surprisingly pliable, and soon she had a long, somewhat uneven strip of pasta. “Look at that! A spaghetti strip, or as I like to call it, ‘Zoey’s Special Creation’!”

Pleased with her progress, she grabbed another chunk and repeated the process, laughter bubbling up at the absurdity of her kitchen adventure. Each strip varied in width and length, but they all shared one thing in common: they were uniquely hers.

As she rolled out the last piece of dough, she gathered her makeshift spaghetti into a neat pile. “Not bad for a first attempt, if I do say so myself,” she grinned, imagining Rumi's delighted expression when she sat down to dinner.

She checked the instructions to make sure that she followed the instructions. She didn’t know what the difference between step 2 and 3. What’s the difference between folding and flattening? So, she skipped that, saw that step 4 was telling her to repeat the other half. She skipped that too. Step 5 and 6 seemed useless. In fact, most of the steps here seemed useless.

Ah, step 9! Bring a pot of water to a boil, drizzle in some olive oil, and salt the water. The recipe didn’t specify how much salt to add, so Zoey instinctively grabbed two handfuls and tossed them in. As for the olive oil? She poured a generous amount into the pot, feeling confident about her culinary adventure.

She stood near the stove and waited for the pot of water to come to a boil.

“This is easy!” She grinned.

As she stood by the stove, watching the water bubble and hiss, a mischievous thought crossed Zoey's mind. She couldn't help but grin as she recalled something she had read about surprising someone special: the idea of wearing nothing but an apron. The image of Rumi's shocked expression made her giggle.

“Now that would definitely be a surprise,” she mused, her heart racing at the thought. With Rumi on her way over, it felt like the perfect twist to their dinner.

She glanced around the kitchen, her cheeks flushing with excitement. “Why not add a little flair to my culinary masterpiece?” After all, if she was going to impress Rumi, she might as well go all out!

In a burst of playful energy, Zoey dashed to her bedroom, quickly shedding her clothes and throwing on the biggest apron she could find. It was bright yellow with a cute little sun embroidered on it, and it barely covered her. She couldn't help but laugh at her reflection in the mirror, feeling both silly and bold.

“Alright, back to the kitchen!” she declared, running back into the culinary chaos she had created. The pot was bubbling away, and she could almost taste the anticipation in the air.

“Okay, let’s get this pasta boiling, and then I’ll be ready for my masterpiece!” Zoey said, her heart pounding with excitement and nerves. She carefully added her handmade spaghetti to the pot, watching as it danced in the boiling water.

As she stirred it gently, she could already envision Rumi's reaction—surprise, laughter, and maybe even a little awe. “This is going to be the best dinner ever!” she said to herself, her spirits soaring.

As the pasta boiled, Zoey couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. She leaned in, watching as the strands of her handmade spaghetti danced in the bubbling water, but then her heart sank as she noticed the noodles starting to break apart.

“Why are you falling apart on me?” she exclaimed, stirring gently to prevent any further disasters. “You were supposed to be a masterpiece, not a disaster!”

She thought back to the recipe, trying to recall if it mentioned anything about the noodles breaking. “Maybe they’re just… supposed to do that?” she mused, trying to convince herself. “Yeah, probably just an artistic choice.”

With a shrug, she continued stirring, hoping for the best. “Okay, Zoey, think! It’s all part of the charm, right?” She scooped a small piece from the pot and tasted it, grimacing slightly. “Not exactly the magical fettuccine I envisioned, but we’ll make it work.”

Just then, she heard the familiar sound of the front door creaking open. Her heart raced with excitement at the prospect of Rumi’s arrival. In a spontaneous moment of confidence, she struck a playful pose, putting on a sultry expression as she waited for Rumi to walk in.

As Zoey waited, she couldn't help but let a teasing smirk slip onto her lips. "Hope you're ready for a taste of something special, Rumi," she purred, her voice dripping with playful allure.

But just as she was about to lean into her confidence, the door swung open, and her heart dropped. Instead of Rumi, it was Mira, standing there with wide eyes and a look of surprise.

Zoey's sultry demeanor evaporated instantly as embarrassment washed over her. "Oh my gosh!" she squeaked, quickly straightening up and blushing fiercely. "I-I didn’t mean to… uh, you caught me off guard!" She scrambled to hide behind the counter, her face turning a brilliant shade of crimson as she tried to collect herself.

Mira stood frozen, her mouth agape as she took in the chaotic scene. Flour dust hung in the air, and the kitchen looked like a war zone, but what truly caught her attention was Zoey, standing there in nothing but her bright yellow apron, her face burning with embarrassment.

“Zoey, what the…?” Mira finally managed to stutter, eyes wide. “Why are you—”

Before she could finish her sentence, the sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway, and the door swung open once again.

“Zoey? I’m here!” Rumi called out, her voice bright and cheerful. But as she stepped into the kitchen, her expression went from excitement to confusion, her eyes widening at the sight before her. Her gaze focused on Zoey, quickly morphing into surprise. “Whoa!”

Rumi blinked, momentarily speechless, her eyes darting from the chaotic kitchen to Zoey’s blushing face. “Are you… naked?”

“Not completely! I mean, well, I’m in an apron!” Zoey blurted, her cheeks blazing as she fumbled for words. “I thought it would be a fun little surprise for dinner, you know? Like, something playful and unexpected! But then, of course, Mira just walks in like it’s totally normal, and now I’m standing here—well, not exactly standing, more like hiding—behind the counter like a total dork! I just wanted to make things special for you, Rumi, and this was supposed to be a cute twist, but now it’s just… it’s so embarrassing! I didn’t think anyone would come over so soon!” She waved her hands animatedly, her mind racing to explain while her heart pounded in her chest.

Rumi could only stare, at first, as if her mind had paused in the face of the sheer absurdity before her. Flour drifted down through flickering kitchen light like aftermath from a tiny explosion; Zoey stood in the center, wide-eyed, spatula in hand, half-apology tumbling out of her mouth before she even made real sense of any of it. Somewhere under the chaos, Rumi felt something stir—a rush, excitement prickling beneath the disbelief.

As Zoey rambled, the initial surprise gave way to something brighter. Rumi’s lips curled into a smirk, and when she found her voice, it was playful. “Well, this is certainly unexpected,” she said, a teasing note unmistakable. The sight almost made her want to laugh outright. “Honestly, I think this might be the cutest disaster I’ve ever seen.”

She scanned the room, heart tripping at the sheer scale of chaos. Bowls askew, flour streaking the counter, pots left to their own fate on the stove—it was almost hard to tell where the mess ended and Zoey began. A kind of concern tangled with delight as Rumi tried to imagine what, exactly, had happened in the minutes she’d been gone. “Seriously, though,” she managed, gesturing at the carnage with a sweeping hand, her eyes lingering on Zoey’s flour-dusted cheeks, “what happened in here? It looks like a baking war zone!”

Somewhere underneath, awe flickered; Zoey had tried to pull this off solo, hadn’t she? Homemade Fettuccine Alfredo, no less. Rumi nearly grinned—a tiny bit proud. There was something fearless about the way Zoey dove into things, even if the result was all-out kitchen anarchy.

“Did the dough revolt?” Rumi asked, leaning in, eyebrow raised and curiosity hooked.

“Ugh, I was trying to make homemade Fettuccine Alfredo!” Zoey defended herself, throwing a glance at the stove as if the pot itself had betrayed her. “But it’s been a complete disaster. The dough fought back, and I may have added a little too much—”

“Smoke.” Mira interrupted, finally reminding the others that she’s present, pointing dramatically at the stove where tendrils of gray began to curl upwards. “Uh, Zoey? I think your pasta is smoking.”

“Oh no!” Zoey gasped, spinning around to face the pot, her heart racing as she rushed to the stove. “Not the pasta! I swear it had a good run!”

She quickly grabbed a wooden spoon, stirring vigorously in a panic. “No, no, no! You were supposed to be a masterpiece!”

As she stirred, desperation clung to her like the flour settling on her cheeks. “Please don’t let this be the end of my Fettuccine Alfredo dreams!” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder at Rumi. The sight of Rumi, a blend of amusement and concern in her eyes, sent a rush of warmth through Zoey.

“Just keep stirring, and I'll grab you something to fix that smoke,” Rumi said, stepping back to search through the cabinets.

But just when Zoey thought she had everything under control, her elbow nudged the bowl of flour. Time slowed as she watched it teeter on the edge of the counter, her heart sinking.

“Oh no, no, no!” she gasped, her eyes widening in horror.

With a dramatic crash, the bowl toppled over, sending a cloud of flour exploding into the air. It enveloped her like a ghostly cloud, and in that split second, Zoey lost her balance. She stumbled backward, her feet slipping on the now-flour-dusted floor.

“Whoa!” Rumi exclaimed, reaching out instinctively to catch her.

But it was too late. With a flurry of flour and panic, Zoey found herself crashing down into Rumi's waiting arms. They landed on the floor with a soft thud, Zoey sprawled across Rumi, the chaos of flour swirling around them like a scene from a romantic comedy.

“Zoey!” Rumi laughed, a mix of surprise and amusement dancing in her eyes. “Are you okay?”

For a heartbeat, everything else faded—the kitchen chaos, the smoking pot—all that existed was the softness of Rumi’s embrace and the way their bodies fit together perfectly. Zoey’s heart raced, not just from the fall, but from the intoxicating closeness, their breaths mingling in the flour-dusted air.

“I—uh...,” Zoey stammered, her pulse thrumming wildly as she caught Rumi’s gaze. The playful glint in Rumi’s eyes held an electric promise, a flicker of something deeper that sent a thrill coursing through her.

“Definitely not how I imagined this dinner going,” Rumi teased, her lips curling into a smile that made Zoey’s stomach flutter. They both lingered in the moment, the world around them fading as they soaked in the intimate connection forged in that chaotic tumble.

Rumi's fingers brushed gently against Zoey’s bare back, sending a shiver down her spine, a teasing spark igniting in her gaze. “You know, I think you might just be the most adorable disaster I’ve ever seen.” The words hung in the air, heavy with affection.

Zoey’s cheeks, already flushed from the tumble and the aftermath, went a shade deeper. She tried to gather herself, but her mind was a kaleidoscope of embarrassment, pleasure, and a wild, unspooling embarrassment that threatened to tip her into outright panic. “I—uh, maybe I should have just ordered takeout?” she stammered, voice high and breathless, half-hoping to deflect with self-deprecating humor, half-praying for a portal to open up beneath her and swallow her whole. Her words came out in a rush, and she immediately winced at the lameness of the joke.

Rumi, for her part, didn’t let go. Her hands shifted, thumbs now drawing small, deliberate circles against Zoey’s skin, a rhythmic, comforting pressure that made it impossible for Zoey to retreat fully into mortification. “But then I wouldn’t have gotten to see this side of you,” Rumi said, her tone at once playful and sincere. She leaned in, her head tilting so that the cascade of blue hair nearly brushed Zoey’s shoulder. Her eyes shone with mischief, but also something that made Zoey’s heart bang against her ribs—something like tenderness, she realized, so pure it almost hurt to look at.

For a moment, everything receded—the floury chaos, the smell of scorched dairy, the distant groan of the radiator. The two of them existed in a hush, suspended in an electric hush, breath mingling in the flour-dense air. Zoey’s mind—usually a relentless engine of analysis and catastrophe scenarios—went blissfully blank. She could feel Rumi’s exhale, warm and steady, and the faintest tickle of her lips, so close to her ear it made her shiver. Their laughter, when it finally came, was softer, edged with something vulnerable.

Zoey’s pulse hammered at the base of her throat. She had never felt more exposed—literally and otherwise. Naked but for an apron and a fine sifting of flour, she was absurd, but Rumi’s gaze made her feel, for a fleeting instant, uncommonly beautiful, even desirable. She grinned back, tentative at first, then wider as her embarrassment bled away into the glow of Rumi’s attention.

Then, as if on cue, reality kicked the door in.

Behind them, Mira cleared her throat—once, twice, until the sound cut through the moment like the snap of a rubber band. “Ahem! Not to interrupt this very romantic scene or anything,” Mira said, her voice pitched somewhere between sarcasm and genuine alarm, “but the pot is boiling over. And, Zoey, I mean this in the least creepy way possible, but you’ve got a really nice ass.”

Zoey managed to untangle herself from Rumi with a clumsy scramble, knees and elbows colliding with the tile floor. She sprang upright, cheeks at maximum incandescence, and whipped around to face both her unexpected audience and the kitchen disaster unfolding behind her. Rumi, still kneeling where she’d landed, burst into laughter—a sound so reckless and bright that for a second Zoey forgot to be mortified.

“The pasta!” Zoey yelped, turning on her heel and nearly tripping over the corner of her own apron. Her heart was still pounding, but her limbs acted on instinct, propelling her toward the stovetop, which now billowed great clouds of steam and the alarming, acrid scent of overcooked starch. She fumbled for a wooden spoon, stirring with manic energy, and muttered, “I’ll just… save dinner now!”

Rumi and Mira shared a knowing glance, both of them unable to suppress their grins as they watched Zoey dive back into the chaos of the kitchen.

…

Rumi had barely closed the door on Mira before she let out a long, unsteady breath. Her face still tingled with embarrassment and excitement, replaying the scene in her mind: Zoey’s panicked jump behind the counter to cover herself, the flour explosion, and how Zoey had fallen, flustered and half-naked, into Rumi’s arms. It was chaotic and mortifying, yet oddly thrilling.

Rumi found herself grinning despite everything, her cheeks refusing to relax. Mira had given her a sly look, as if to say, “I see what’s happening here.” Who could blame her? Rumi barely understood it herself, only that her heart raced like it hadn’t in years. She took a step toward Zoey, drawn in by an invisible pull.

The kitchen looked like a disaster zone—flour dusting every surface and clinging to Zoey’s hair. She was trying to clean it up with a damp cloth, only smearing it across her skin, while her yellow apron made her look like a mix between a pinup and a clumsy chef. Rumi wanted to laugh, maybe even swoon, but for now, she just watched.

Zoey hummed a tune as she dabbed at the flour, her cheeks bright and proud, refusing to let her mortification show. It was both endearing and irresistible.

Rumi leaned against the counter, pretending to assess the mess but unable to take her eyes off Zoey. Every detail caught her attention—the way the bright yellow apron hugged Zoey’s curves, the flour dusting her cheeks, and the playful disarray of her hair. But it was when Zoey turned around, her back to Rumi, that everything inside her ignited.

Rumi’s breath hitched as she took in the sight of Zoey’s bare legs and the curve of her hips, accentuated by the apron that barely covered her. The way Zoey moved with such confidence, unknowingly flaunting her form, sent a thrill racing up Rumi’s spine. She felt her heart race, excitement bubbling within her as she admired every inch of Zoey's figure, the soft contours and the gentle sway of her body drawing Rumi in like a magnet.

She couldn’t help but bite her lip, captivated by the way Zoey’s ass, framed perfectly by the apron, seemed to dance with every step. IEach subtle movement ignited a rush of excitement within her, and it was a moment that made Rumi’s pulse quicken, awakening a desire that was hard to ignore. The chaos of the kitchen faded away; all that mattered was the intoxicating view before her.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

Finally, Rumi broke the silence, she called, her voice lower than intended. “Zoey?”

“Yes, my favorite girlfriend in the whole wide world?” Zoey replied, flashing a sheepish yet sincere smile.

Rumi couldn’t help but return the smile, though she tried to keep her tone even. “Where’s the wine?”

Zoey halted abruptly, the damp cloth hovering in the air as if time itself had paused. “The dough... ate it?” she stammered, her voice faltering as her gaze flicked nervously to the shattered remnants of the wine bottle scattered across the counter. Shards glinted ominously in the kitchen light, a stark reminder of her earlier clumsiness.
“The dough!” Zoey exclaimed, her hands gesturing wildly as if she were trying to convince Rumi that the dough was indeed a ravenous monster. “I swear it has a mind of its own! It was like this fluffy little gremlin, just sitting there, plotting my culinary demise. I thought—what’s a little wine to a starving dough?”

Rumi crossed her arms, suppressing a smile as amusement danced in her eyes. “So, what you’re saying is, your pasta is officially a wine connoisseur now?”

“Exactly!” Zoey declared, nodding vigorously. “It was all, ‘Oh, I can’t possibly rise without my merlot!’ I should’ve known better than to invite a yeast with such taste! Next thing you know, it’ll be demanding caviar and a side of truffles!”

Ignoring the chaos and the kitchen disaster, Rumi wrapped her arms around Zoey, pulling her close. “Next time you want to cook, let me know. I’d love to teach you.” Rumi chuckled softly, her tone playful and laced with mischief. Leaning in closer, her breath warmed Zoey's skin. “You know, if your dough is this demanding already, I can only imagine what it’ll be like when you start making soufflés. Should I prepare for a culinary diva?”

The teasing tone sent a rush of heat through Zoey, causing her cheeks to flush. “Hey! I’m just trying to impress you!" she protested, attempting to sound indignant but failing miserably as a grin broke through.

Rumi smirked, her fingers trailing lightly along Zoey’s waist, igniting a spark in her heart. “Oh, I’m definitely impressed. Who knew a disaster could be so… delightful?” She leaned back slightly, her eyes sparkling as they took in the sight of Zoey amid the chaos, flour dusting her hair and cheeks.

“Delightful?” Zoey echoed, feigning offense to maintain her composure. “Is that code for ‘you’re a hot mess’?”

“Maybe a little bit of both,” Rumi teased, stepping even closer, the air thick with tension. “But honestly, I think it’s kind of adorable.” she paused, her gaze flicking to Zoey’s lips, the palpable tension making it hard to breathe. “And maybe a little sexy, too.”

Zoey’s breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding louder than the bubbling pot on the stove. “S-sexy? I’m in an apron!” she stammered, feeling flustered yet exhilarated.

“Exactly,” Rumi replied, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper. She leaned in again, capturing Zoey’s gaze with an intensity that made her knees weak. “A bright yellow apron? It’s like you’re calling out for trouble, and I’m more than ready to oblige.”

Zoey’s stomach fluttered as she caught Rumi’s playful smirk. “I’m totally not trying to seduce you with my cooking skills!” she retorted, though her voice lacked conviction.

“Maybe not,” Rumi said, eyes locked onto Zoey’s as their bodies nearly touched. “But it’s definitely working. Just think about it—me teaching you how to cook, lots of laughter, maybe some flour fights… and who knows where that could lead?”

“R-Rumi!” Zoey exclaimed, her heart racing and cheeks flushing. “You’re making it really hard to focus!”

Rumi grinned, stepping a little closer, the playful tension thickening in the air. “Good. Because I think we’ve got a way more exciting recipe unfolding right here.”

Zoey opened her mouth to respond, but the words got stuck as Rumi leaned in, a wicked sparkle in her eyes. Suddenly, the kitchen chaos faded into a background hum. All that mattered was the space between them—charged, electric. Rumi’s breath was warm against Zoey’s skin, igniting a rush of anticipation.

“Besides,” Rumi whispered, her lips just a breath away from Zoey’s, “who needs dinner when I have you right here?”

It was a bold statement, and for a heartbeat, Zoey was breathless, caught off guard but exhilarated by the sudden shift. “You’re going to distract me completely, you know that?” she replied, her voice teasing yet soft.

“Isn’t that the point?” Rumi replied with a cheeky grin before closing the distance between them. Their lips met in a soft, lingering kiss that sent a thrill coursing through both of them. Flour dust danced in the air around them, but in that moment, none of it mattered. It was just the two of them, wrapped up in each other, letting the rest of the world fade away.