The Book Of Me & You

"You Got Me Smilin' With Tears In My Eyes"

"Shit!" She cursed under her breath, trying to fan the smoke starting to waft up from the oven with her hands  before it reached the smoke alarm. Grabbing the handle, "Shit!" She pulled back and winced at the tiny burn to her thumb as she opened the oven to retrieve the charred contents.

Before she could even close the door with her foot, he raced out into the hallway, franticly rubbing the sleep from his eyes in a panic of rushed words, "What's wrong? What's going on? You okay?"

With a nod, Amy tossed the pan on the counter, showcasing the casualty of her attempts to make breakfast to him. He stifled a laugh, pursing his lips inward. "Don't say it!" She chuckled, tossing her oven mitts on the counter next to the blackened mounds of dough. He raised his hands in surrender, watching her walk over to the trash can in the corner and dispose of the ruined biscuits, "I tried to make those homemade biscuits you like, but -" gesturing to the trash, "obviously that's out."

Picking up the oven mitts, Ricky raised a brow slightly, "Why were you making them?"

Her cheeks flushed, embarrassed, "... because they're your favorite..." Mumbling through a shy smile, "I wanted to thank you for coming out here for me -"

Taking her hand, he stopped her rambling, his lip twitching into a smile, "You don't have to do anything special for me, Ames. Just being here - with you and our kids - is enough." Her eyes landed on his, fingers lingering against his palm - a tiny shot of invisible electricity charging the air between them. He felt it too, swallowing quickly to cover it up, and cocking his head at the phone resting on the counter, "So what recipe were you following exactly?"

Palm to her forehead, she shook it, "I don't know, I just found the first one listed - some lady named Paula Dean made it."

With a slow nod, he quickly scrolled the screen with his eyes, brow furrowing, "Who puts white wine in biscuit dough?"

Snapping her head towards the device, she gripped it to get a better look, eyes widening with a huff, "Probably the same person who adds olive oil to it."

"I think we found the issue," He stated, handing the phone back to her, while he slid behind her and started gathering the materials from the cabinets and refrigerator.

15 minutes later

"Come on, Juergens, you can do better than that! Get in there!" He instructed, trying to hide his amusement at his ex's poor attempts at kneading the dough correctly. She was slapping it and pushing it into a higher mound, but getting nowhere in actually shaping it; her fingers barely applying pressure. "You're not even trying, are you?"

"I am!" She defended herself, sinking her fingertips in further, "It's not as easy as it looks! Dough is hard!"

"Pretend you're giving it a massage - dig in there." Obeying, she started to rub harder, practically strangling it as if it were to be an actual person. He chuckled, "If you're going to be that aggressive, at least take it to dinner first, Ames." Waggling his eyebrows with a smirk.

Hitting his side with her hip, she scoffed, "You're a terrible teacher."

He chuckled again, standing behind her, "Hey don't blame me because you're a hard-headed student." Putting his hands into the mound on the counter to assist her, their hands brushed inside the dough. His chin caught the edge of her ear, the heat from her body against his making his heartbeat quicken and his breath hitch, willing away the impulses from the lower half of his body. Her back stiffened slightly when her fingers brushed his again, and her eyes rose to find his already on her, chest starting to flutter at the speck of yellow in them that he shared with their son.

Without thought, their lips connected softly before fighting for dominance; the electric pulse of the air radiating with her low moan into his mouth; struggling to free her hands from the gooey mound.