Little did Santana know, Brittany was miles away from thinking about sex.

She had spent the day trying to make sauces that didn't make her want to gag or cry. Needless to say, it'd been a struggle. She was far from a wreck in the kitchen, but ever since Santana had moved back in, she'd started trying to focus more on taste. True, it was her job, but she'd realized recently that she had completely slacked off. Her taste buds still worked marvelously, and Susan Spite was still very much Cuisine's best and ever-mysterious asset, but when it came to cooking her own meals, Brittany knew she had gotten lazy.

Santana loved cooking for her, and that was all very sweet, but she often wished she could make something that would have her wife moaning obnoxiously too. Not to mention, they had been talking about kids for a few weeks now, and the blonde knew Santana would be too exhausted if she had to deal with the restaurant, motherhood, and cooking every night. Brittany worked from home most of the time, so it would be much more practical for her to know how to make a decent lunch for their child while Santana was at Adjacent. She doubted their little angel would appreciate tuna macaroni every day.

Inevitably, thinking about children again had Brittany smiling over the saucepan. She and Santana were both ready for that step, and it was only a matter of time before they had a little cherub crawling around with a sticky mouth and fingers covered in jam. Knowing that Santana would want to experiment with all sorts of kid-friendly meals and desserts on weekends, Brittany predicted that their child would most likely have chipmunk cheeks and pudgy little hands. Brittany thought that was adorable, but Santana was perturbed that she would possibly be the cause of their child being a bit too chubby. Perhaps they'd both have to tame down their cooking urges.

However, Brittany highly doubted that would happen. Ever since Cuisine had published her review and dedicated a whole page to Adjacent, praising its menu and calling Santana an up-and-comer to look out for (a title she had definitely surpassed since then), Santana had been cooking more than ever. Their kitchen was a space for experiments and new creative recipes, and Brittany had given up on trying to clean it, especially since she herself was using it so much recently.

Having two food lovers in the house was definitely a treat, quite literally, but could also be a bit overwhelming. Even when Santana was at the restaurant for long hours every day, she still came back home with her hands itching to open the fridge and grab a pan. The number of times she overdid herself with five-course meals was definitely impressive. Brittany now had to hit the gym twice as often to stay in shape, though she was pretty sure Santana wouldn't be against her gaining a few pounds, if feeding her the richest lemon meringues and chocolate mousses in bed was any indication.

"Mmm, smells good."

Brittany turned around and smiled softly when Santana came down the stairs, wearing a tank top and her favorite black shorts. Her wet hair was combed back, and Brittany could smell her shampoo from here.

"Feel better?"

"Yeah, I washed all the sweat off," Santana said playfully before walking to Brittany and looking down at the saucepan. Brittany bit her lip.

"Aw baby, you should have told me you wanted to make Caruso sauce. I would've grabbed some fresh onions from the restaurant."

Brittany blinked, then sighed. "My onions were fresh. I wanted to make this on my own." She grabbed a wooden spoon and let Santana scoot closer. "What do you think?"

Santana was tempted to dip her finger into the sauce but refrained when she noticed the color of the ham. "Did you use prosciutto?"

"Yeah, it makes it nice and salty."

"Huh."

"What?" Brittany frowned.

Santana shrugged. "It's just a little weird to use Italian ham for this sauce."

"What? Why? It's an Italian sauce."

"Uruguayan, actually," Santana corrected with a small smile.

"No," Brittany insisted, but deflated a few seconds later. "Well, yes it is," she admitted begrudgingly, "but it follows traditional Italian cuisine."

"Well yeah, but—"

"Hmph, why don't you make your own sauce for tomorrow's meal and let me do this one on my own for once?"

Santana quirked an eyebrow. "First of all, I was just offering my opinion. Second of all, you," she smirked, "are being incredibly childish."

"Am not!"

"Are too," Santana chuckled. She settled her hands on Brittany's hips, pulling her in gently. "Don't be like this, sweetheart. Can I taste it?"

"No," Brittany huffed, crossing her arms. "You'll want it to be perfect, and you don't think I can achieve that."

Santana gasped exaggeratedly. "Why, Mrs. Pierce-Lopez, you are being very stubborn tonight."

Brittany pouted. She hated when Santana pulled the Mrs. card on her...and by hated, she meant loved. It never failed to make her stomach flutter and her heart skip a beat.

"Fine," she conceded, "you can taste."

Santana smiled triumphantly before giving Brittany a quick kiss. She then dipped a spoon into the pan and sipped on it carefully, knowing it was still pretty hot. After a beat, she moaned.

"Is it really that good?" the blonde asked, surprised. Sauces had never been her forte. In fact, she knew she was pretty damn horrible at making them, but that wasn't for lack of trying.

Santana smiled but said nothing.

"No?" Brittany frowned.

Seeing the disappointment on her wife's face, Santana couldn't help but step closer to her and kiss her once again. "It's really good, babe."

Brittany pouted. "But?"

"But..." Santana chuckled, "it's...well, it's missing something."

"What? That's impossible," Brittany turned around, looking down at the recipe. "I used everything—the cream, the onions, I even made sure to wash the mushrooms twice before I—"

"Baby," Santana laughed. "It's not in the recipe."

Brittany frowned. "Then what is it?"

"It's a secret."

"...You can't be serious."

Santana bit her lip almost shyly, then looked down at the saucepan. "Well...let's say it's a spice."

"That's it?" Brittany asked, her curiosity piqued.

"That's it."

"So it's just one spice short?"

"From perfect? Maybe."

"So what is it? The spice?"

"You're the one with the golden palate, babe. You tell me."

Brittany pouted, "I'm too lazy to go through hundreds of spices. You're the cook, you tell me."

Santana smirked, backing away from her wife. "Nope, a chef never reveals their secret ingredient."

Brittany gasped. "But I'm your wife!"

"That you are," Santana swooned, "my crazy-adorable wife."

The blonde arched an eyebrow. "Adorable? Was I adorable when I fucked you from behind yesterday?"

Santana almost choked. "Britt!"

Brittany smirked, liking how quickly she could get the upper hand. She turned the burner off and backed Santana against the counter near the fridge. "Well?" she reiterated.

"Well, what?"

"The spice, Santana, what's the spice I need?"

"Oh, I don't know," Santana laughed, eyes flickering from Brittany's mischievous eyes to her lips. "I can't remember."

Brittany chuckled, and Santana felt her warm breath on her face. "Honey, are you lying to me?"

The chef widened her eyes innocently. "I would never!" She blinked. "Well...yes, I am."

"Hmm...I guess I'll have to get it out of you some other way."

Before she could even open her mouth, Santana felt Brittany lift her up, and she automatically circled her waist with her legs, holding onto Brittany's neck. With a gorgeous view of her wife's cleavage, Brittany couldn't help but smirk. This was a wicked game she was about to play, and Santana knew it. If Brittany worked her up long enough, she'd become absolute putty in her hands and blurt out anything her wife wanted to know. "Britt, that's not fair!"

Paying her no mind, Brittany smiled deviously as she walked her wife up the stairs and into their bedroom. It didn't take long, of course, for Santana to moan out the name of her secret spice. In fact, Brittany was still pumping her fingers into her when she did, and if it weren't for her wife's delighted squeal, Santana wouldn't even have realized what she'd said.

It was only after she came hard, and Brittany was kissing up and down her neck with a smile on her lips, that she realized, still quite high, that no cream in the world could ever be more whipped than she was. As Brittany sweetly murmured how much she loved her, though, Santana figured she didn't mind at all.