The café was quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional clink of utensils. Outside, the sun had started to dip, casting a soft orange glow through the windows. Inside, though, the air was alive with energy — flour dust in the air, the aroma of garlic and herbs simmering in a pan, and two teens moving around the kitchen like it was their playground.
"You sure this is gonna work?" Ryan asked, looking skeptically at the mess on the counter.
Anna rolled her eyes. "It's my family recipe. Of course it's going to work."
He raised his hands in mock defense. "Hey, I'm just the assistant here. You're the chef."
She grinned, tying her apron a little tighter. "Then start acting like it and pass me the olive oil."
He handed it to her, their fingers brushing — a spark shot up his arm, quick and unexpected. She noticed it too but didn't say anything, just turned back to the stove with a little smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
Anna had suggested they enter something small but unique at the food festival. A savory pastry her grandmother used to make, something rich with herbs and warm cheese, wrapped in golden dough. A comforting, memory-filled kind of dish.
Ryan had agreed instantly — mostly because it meant spending time with her.
He chopped vegetables while she stirred the filling. The kitchen was a mess — flour on the counter, herbs scattered, a broken egg yolk here and there — but they didn't care. It felt like their own little world.
At one point, Anna reached over to flick a bit of flour off his nose.
"Messy," she said playfully.
Without missing a beat, he dipped his fingers in the flour bowl and dabbed her cheek.
"Now we're even."
She gasped, then grabbed a spoonful of sauce and flung it at him.
"You did not just—!"
"Oh, I did."
Before long, it had turned into full-blown chaos. Laughter echoed through the café as they chased each other around the counter, wielding spatulas and spoons like swords. Ryan cornered her near the fridge, both of them out of breath, eyes locked.
"Truce?" she whispered, her smile softening.
He nodded slowly, his chest rising and falling with quiet breaths. "Truce."
They stood there for a second — maybe longer — in the kind of silence that says everything. And then, as if pulled by something stronger than them both, Ryan leaned forward and kissed her.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't clumsy or loud or messy like the flour storm around them.
It was soft. Real. The kind of kiss that made the world stop for just a second.
When they finally pulled apart, Anna kept her forehead resting against his.
"I've been waiting for that," she whispered.
"Me too," he said.
They didn't say much after that. They just stood in the kitchen, holding hands, the pastry still baking in the oven, the café smelling like memories waiting to be shared.
It wasn't just a recipe they were preparing for the festival.
It was the beginning of something sweeter.