The Cuddle Clause

by Roxie Ray

“I think you’re a menace.” “I think you’re deflecting.” Before I could come up with a suitable comeback, he reached into the bag of flour and flicked some at me. “Don’t—” I warned. He did it again. Which, obviously, meant war. I grabbed a handful of flour and lobbed it at his chest. It exploded like a powder bomb. Roman yelped and retaliated with a puff aimed at my face. I shrieked, flailing, and upended the mixing bowl as I grabbed the counter for balance. Some of the dough ended up smeared across his jaw. He tried to duck behind the fridge door, hit his head, cursed, and somehow flung sugar onto the counter like confetti. Flour in my eyelashes. Dough on his neck. We were both breathless from laughing by the time we collapsed on the floor, backs against the lower cabinets, our clothes dusted with white. My cheeks hurt from smiling. “Truce?” he panted. “I don’t trust you.” He held up a jar of peanut butter. “Let’s just eat this and pretend the cookies were a success.”