He catches her by surprise in the kitchen. The faded yellow apron (that was, perhaps, her mother’s, once upon a time) rests twisted in a neat little bow-shaped knot at the small of her back. Someone has braided her hair neatly down between her shoulder blades, a dark intricacy that smells of cinnamon, if one is near enough to catch the scent, and flour. He doesn’t care to inquire as to how the white powder has made it to her bangs in the moment. The ruckus in the front room has quieted and the only sound is of the movie playing— something grand, cinematic and full of song-and-dance if he knows Orchid’s tenants well enough.

She catches him lurking out of the corner of her good eye and jumps, pressing a floury hand to her chest. A pale hand print remains, to his ire.

- You scared me!

But she smiles, sweet and soft, and he answers with a kiss to her cheek. She doesn’t ask why, like she once might have, and instead when he moves back, she laughs. His curious brow is lost in the whiteness of his hair and she points and grins.

- There’s flour on your lips. Practical, tidy Unreau reaches to remove it. She touches his white wrist and rolls onto tiptoes to remove it with the gentle pillow of her lips. They remain for a long moment and she only removes herself for laughter, her tongue darting out. -You taste like flour.

He licks his own lips and knows only the citrus of key lime, the now-and-forever flavor of Orchid. Before she can finish the dessert she started, he leans back in for another taste.