Biscuit
She has been baking; the warm sweet smell of dough and butter and chocolate chips fills the kitchen to bursting point, and then oozes beneath the door and swells out into the corridor to waft enticingly through the many rooms of the house. It even reaches his study, where he makes a valiant effort to resist the lure of the scent- but, inevitably, it proves too tempting to resist, and he follows his nose to the kitchen. Knowing that she will in all likelihood prefer not to be disturbed, he stops himself from going in and merely lingers in the doorway, gazing as inconspicuously as possible around the door, which hangs slightly ajar. He sees her briefly, standing at the table with a recipe book in her hand and a smudge of flour on her face, poring over the pages with an expression that speaks of intense concentration.
Even this brief glance is enough to put a certain small smile on his face as he returns to his room, and the expression remains on his lips as he works.
Twenty minutes later, he returns to the kitchen, and is greeted with the not-so-accommodating sight of her back as she stands at the sink washing up, a tray of biscuits cooling on the table beside her.
He glances at her, then at the biscuits, then back again. Then a childish idea comes into his head; he grins, and pounces without pausing to think.
His movements are faster than her reactions, it seems: by the time she has turned around, the biscuit has disappeared into his mouth.
She yells with rage and makes an involuntary motion with her hand as if flinging something at him; he ducks, and a look of pure fear flashes over his face- before they both realise that her hand is empty, and her trustworthy weapon has been left on the workbench, leaving her unarmed and relatively harmless.
She flicks washing-up bubbles at him instead, and they laugh, because just for a moment it is like old times.