She turned away to check the oven, trying to hide her blush, but he stepped behind her, close enough that she could feel his breath near her ear.
His hand reached forward slowly — not rough or demanding like before — and brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face.
"You get flour everywhere," he said quietly, his tone teasing but gentler than usual. "Even in your hair."
Her heart skipped. "Maybe you should stop throwing it at me then."
He made a small sound — something between amusement and disbelief — then reached up again, gathering her hair loosely in his hand to tie it back with the ribbon that had fallen from her wrist.
"Stay still," he murmured. "You look like a mess."
She stood still, her breathing shallow as he tied her hair neatly, his fingers brushing against her neck for a second too long.
When he finished, he let her hair fall softly against her back. "There," he said quietly. "Now you look like my little chef."
