Ann slides her finger down the faded page of the recipe, one her mother copied out years ago still on it's original index card. "Two cups of sugar," she reads, half from memory. Leslie hefts the bag from the lower cabinet, not hesitating at the handle, no longer cautious in Ann's kitchen. She unfolds the top, fills the scoop and levels off the remainder with her finger, catching Ann's glare before she pops her finger into her mouth.
"What? I'll wash!" she says, though the words come out garbled and with a small spray of pixie white.
Ann dumps the sugar into her bowl, trying to keep her smile down. "If you're done cleaning yourself I need another cup," she says, attempting an intimidating glare that manifests somewhere between amused and besotted.
Leslie hangs the offensive finger under the tap and dutifully washes up. "We're the ones who are going to eat 'em, right? So it shouldn't matter if our germs are baked inside." She pouts seriously and fusses with Ann's kitchen towel. Her head drops to Ann's shoulder. "Don't you like my germs?"
"I love your germs," Ann allows, kissing the crown of Leslie's head. "Just not in my cookies."