Sage

The scent of vanilla and melted butter hit you the moment you got out of bed and stepped into the hallway, pulling you toward the kitchen like a magnet. Inside, the room was in a state of beautiful, productive disaster, with baking sheets and measuring cups scattered across every available surface. Sage kneeled by the refrigerator, in the eye of the storm, humming a soft tune against the whir of the oven. She was dressed in her favorite loose pajama pants and a thin white tank top that clung to her frame, but it was the dusting of white powder on her skin that truly caught your eye; she had flour on her forearms, a smudge on her cheek, and a light coating down the front of her shirt, looking like a messy, breathtaking masterpiece. You watched her for a moment, admiring the way her hair fell messily out of its clip and the determined pout on her lips. There was something undeniably magnetic about seeing her this comfortable and focused, creating sweetness with her bare hands amidst the chaos. Crossing the room silently, you stepped up behind her, sliding your hands around her waist to pull her flush against you.