Sticky, gooey cookie dough covers the countertops and my fingers. There’s a chocolate chip stuck to his cheek. Flour coats the floor, resembling freshly fallen snow against the sleek black tile.

“I never knew making cookies would be this difficult,” he grunts, wiping his forehead and leaving a trail of sugar behind, the white substance sticking to his sweat-soaked brow. “There. That’s the last of them. Please tell me we can bake these fuckers now.”

I can’t stifle the laugher that bursts out of me any longer. Taking the two full trays, I carefully place them in his oven. “After eleven to thirteen minutes, Henry, we can eat these fuckers, too.”

“I’ve never been so hungry in my life,” he whines, collapsing onto the barstool on the other side of the island, lips sticking out in a pout. “If I had known it was going to take us years to make 24 cookies, I would have eaten a bigger dinner. Properly hydrated. Paced out my food throughout the day. I’m not sure I can make it. Go on without me.” He drops his head onto his arms, hiding his face.

“Remind me to never ask you to help me bake a cake. Or bread. You might lose all your sanity.”

“Oh, forget it. I wouldn’t stand a chance. I’ll keep picking up baked goods from the grocery store and passing them off as my own.”

I gasp. “I can never trust you now!”

“This is why I order all my food or purchase it pre-made. I don’t want to have to work for my meals.”

“Poor, poor, spoiled Henry,” I joke, squealing as a handful of chocolate chips gets launched my way, joining the flour on the floor. A rogue rebel lands in my hair.

“What do I have to do to make you my professional cookie maker?”

“You can start by not throwing precious chocolate chips at my face! I could’ve eaten those! They’re valuable!”

“Five second rule?” he offers, grinning boyishly at me. There’s the dimple again. In all its sugar-coated glory.

“Doubtful. These floors probably haven’t been cleaned in weeks.”

“When did you start baking?” Henry asks. “You make it seem so natural.”

“I think I made my first batch of cookies around the age of six. I was watching an episode of Little Bear while I mixed ingredients together. The aftermath looked mysteriously like this and the cookies were charred. Burnt to a crisp.”

“Tell me more about your childhood. I like learning about you. There’s this whole life of yours I never knew existed since we’re not—”

“Friends?” I finish for him. Henry frowns.