Pie

"Pie?" he said, walking into the kitchen. The air was warm like the oven was on, and smelled of fruit and spice and hot metal.

She turned towards him and nodded. Her green apron was dusted white and there was a small scattering of it on the floor by her feet. She smiled, rolling pin in hand, a light dusting of flour on her nose. "Only if you're good. Peach pie."

He walked up to her, wiped the flour off her nose, and kissed it for good measure. "I'm always good," he replied.

"Not if you make me tear this pie crust." She kissed his chin. "If I do, then it's TV dinners and no dessert."

He held up his hands in surrender. "Far be it from me to disturb the cook," he replied, but stole a kiss before he left.

She snorted, and turned back to her pie dough.

Dinner was TV dinners and peach pie. But the pie was rather good, and he was well rewarded for not saying the wrong thing.