Sugar Across The Hall | J. H.

II.

♫- Dance, Sherlock

What. The. Hell.

You examine the cookie in your hand slowly. Turn it around. Flip it upside down. Try to find anything that could give away how mind-numbingly good that first bite of the cookie was. You even do a sweep of the room, just in case there's any hidden cameras.

Lowering your eyebrows suspiciously, you take another bite, and all but melt into the counter under your elbows. The fact that a cookie can make your eyes roll back is insane.
You're not much of a baker, but there was a richness and depth to the flavors mixing on your taste buds that you know can't be store bought.

With your mind made up, you inhale the rest of the cookie, trying your best to savor it but ultimately giving into your cravings without a second thought. Your feet carry you to your slippers, your hand finds the doorknob, and you find your fist hovering over Joshua's door before your senses come back to you.

Looking down at your bunny slippers and pink velour sweat set, you'd consider it an upgrade from his first impression of you. At least your hair was brushed this time?

Suddenly the door in front of you swings open, revealing a Joshua that seems about ready to bolt down the hallway.

"Oh! Y/n," his surprised expression quickly drops to a happy one upon seeing you, and you can't help but be a little relieved that he has a good opinion of you. He looks nice(although with his appearance, you can't imagine him ever looking bad), wearing a plain white shirt with a denim jacket over it, and the same beaded necklace from last night. His hair is a lot silkier when dry, and you find that light brown almost suits his...personality?
"Hi, uh- is now a bad time?" You peer past his shoulder and notice an assortment of baking utensils on his kitchen counter.
"No! Not at all, I was just uh..." he scratches the back of his neck as his cheekbones turn slightly pink, and you wonder if that has anything to do with the mess behind him. "What's up?"

"The cookies. They're amazing- I have to know where you got them. I might actually die if I don't."
"Oh well we can't have that," he chuckles, stepping back from the door and trying to hide his grin. "I just pulled out a batch, they're so much better fres-"
"You made them?" You step into his apartment, and the wonderful smell of chocolate and brown sugar greet you like a warm hug. You don't know why, but this feels very on-brand for Joshua. Of course your neighbor across the hall just so happens to bake the best chocolate chip cookies you've ever tasted.
"You're not gonna rob me now, are you?" He holds you a cookie fresh off of one of several baking sheets.
"I'd keep your doors locked just in case." What is with you? Since when do you flirt with people you'd practically just met?

When you reach out to take the cookie and he pulls it back slightly though, you feel as though you're not entirely at fault here. Especially not when he's smiling at you like that again as he gives it to you with a chuckle.

He's right. The cookie is still chewy and the chocolate melts in your mouth, and try as you might, you're not hiding how good it is through your facial expression.
"Joshua, seriously," you sigh, and his eyes seem to soften slightly at his name, "these are immaculate. Is there crack in them, by chance?"
"Actually, it's brown butter and espresso powder," he says excitedly, and then runs around the kitchen counter to snatch something out of a cabinet. "But something I've been doing a lot nowadays..." He comes back to you with a small screw-lid wooden container, and opens it, revealing paper thin white flakes. "...is adding flake salt on top."

You lift your half eaten cookie and he dusts the top of it, as if it were some kind of sacred ritual. And it might as well have been. Because the bite you take afterwards was nothing short of divine.

The moment shatters once you realize Joshua was headed somewhere before you stopped him on his doorstep.
"Oh my god- you were about to leave the house when I showed up," you say, mouth half-full and quickly stepping back from him.
"Oh I was just gonna run to the store," he waves you off, leaning over the counter. "I ran out of cinnamon and didn't realize until after my snickerdoodle batter was chilling-"
"You can just borrow mine," you blurt out, already heading towards the door. Before he can protest, you're already back, tossing the glass bottle between your hands before handing it to him.
"Are you sure?" He looks at you as if you just handed him the keys to your apartment, and you almost laugh.
"I haven't even opened it yet, knock yourself out."

You must have broken some unspoken baker's code, or maybe he just really didn't feel like leaving his house, because the way his shoulders relax makes you want to let him keep it.

"You can return that whenever you want," you chuckle, swiping one more cookie off of his tray before heading towards the door. Your self-preservation instinct kicked in, and now that your reason for bothering each other has evaporated, you don't want to stick around and find out how many stupid things you can say to a pretty man in the span of five minutes.
"Oh- uh, thank you!" He catches you at the door with that disarming smile of his. "I'll give it back tomorrow."

He holds your gaze with his own, and your feet refuse to move away until you reply with an "okay" that comes out a bit more giddy than you would have liked.

Safely on the other side of your apartment door, you let out a long and shaky breath as you slump against the surface, the slightest bit of warmth rising to your cheeks.

He made it a point to tell you that he would give back the cinnamon tomorrow. Did that mean anything? No, of course not, he's just being polite. At least he gave you a heads up, but that seems a bit unorthodox given the nature of your previous encounters.

You sober up enough to walk back to your cookie container, plucking one last treat out before finding the salt in your cabinet. It's not his fancy flake salt, but it will suffice for now.

God. You'd buy these by the dozen if you could. The little sigh that leaves your lips is well earned, and you wish you had the words to explain how magnificent they are, just so you could tell him.
He's kinda similar to the cookies, after further pondering. His hair is the same color as brown butter, his eyes are practically warm pools of chocolate, and his summer tan reminds you of the light and fluffy batter that encases everything. Even the salt makes sense, reminding you of the way his lips curl on one side before he says something silly.

Okay. So maybe you were getting a bit carried away.

Feeling as though your thoughts were being judged by some invisible crowd, you fasten the lid on the tupperware container, not willing to be embarrassed in your own home.