Today I tried baking for the first time in weeks. The kitchen felt too empty without someone to taste-test, so I ended up making your favorite—matcha cookies. As I kneaded the dough, I couldn’t stop imagining you catching me with flour on my cheeks, pulling me close, and licking it off… maybe turning me around against the counter, lifting my skirt, and fucking me right there. The thought made me so wet I had to change my panties. But then I remembered how I can barely even hand you the plate without trembling. Why is it so easy to dream about you taking me, but so hard to just say ‘here, I made these for you’?