"Put sugar, margarine, syrup and water into a large, heavy base saucepan," Ethan reads from the recipe. I already know that step, so my saucepan is ready, and I'm measuring six cups of sugar into the pot. I'm about to add 250 ml water when he sees me and jumps from the chair; he was straddling back to front to try and stop me.

"Whoa! Chick! I said 750ml sugar and 125ml water; what are you doing?"

"Dude, go sit down," I order, cutting 250g off the block of margarine and popping it into the pot with the water and sugar. "I know what I'm doing; I've done this so often, I could do this in my sleep. I have an army to make fudge for, and I'm not going to make two batches separately; it will be too exhausting. I'm making double."

"Please don't make fudge in your sleep, Kicks," he scoffs. "You're a bit of a klutz when you're awake; imagine what you'll be like when you're asleep."

"Why are you here?" I ask him the question I'm pretty sure I've asked him before... many times. Instead of going home after our swim, he stayed and nagged me so much that I decided to just make the fudge and get it over with.

"I'm helping you make fudge."

"You keep on saying that, but you're not helping; you're hindering." He really is. He keeps on taking my measuring spoons to steal ice cream from the tub in the freezer. I don't know why he doesn't just grab a bowl and a spoon and have some properly. When I suggested it, he said it's more fun this way. At some point, he discovered an old medicine spoon in the drawer and took the entire tub of peanut, honeycomb, and chocolate delight from the freezer to eat some using that spoon.

"Do you think this qualifies as medicine if I eat it using this spoon?" he wanted to know, and he expected a serious answer!

"As your boyfriend, that's my job," he says now in a logical voice, and he probably thinks he is being logical.

"Hindering, is a boyfriend's job?"

"Isn't it?"

Laughing, I push him back to his chair. He is standing way too close to me, and it is making me feel slightly anxious. I don't normally feel anxious when I'm with Ethan unless he is aiming rubber bands at me or picking me up to throw me off the bridge or climbing a high tree to put a baby bird back in its nest, or crawling into a drain to take out the babies a mother cat left in there and then disappeared or...

Huh! I guess I get anxious around Ethan a lot more often than I thought I did.

"Sit. Stay," I order, navigating him to his chair and pushing him down on it. He goes willingly, straddling it again, cowboy style. "Good boy," I pat his head and grabbing my hand, he glares at me.

"I swear I'm gonna bite you!" he growls, and I flinch when he pulls my hand to his mouth, but my startled reflex turns into a shiver when he gently runs his lips over my fingers before letting me go.

"Heat gently until the sugar is dissolved," he takes up reading the recipe to me again, his voice sounding a little strange right now. Though I knew what the next step was supposed to be, I'm glad he read it, because I've fallen into some kind of trance and am just staring at the pot on the stove. Hearing his voice jolts me back to life, and I turn on the plate under the pot.

"Wow! That spoon is bigger than you, Kicks," Ethan chuckles when I take a huge serving spoon from the drawer next to the stove and place it on the counter, ready for use.

"It has to have a long handle, Ethy; if it doesn't, the boiling sugar splatters onto my fingers and gives me blisters, and then I'm in hell for the rest of the time, struggling to keep the burned areas covered with a dish towel."

"Is that really what you go through each time?"

"Yes."

"Why do you do it then? Doesn't sound like fun at all."

I turn to look at him, and he is giving me an appalled look. He really seems to be puzzled and a little sad now.

"Well, you love it... and so does Daddy... besides, you guys are always nagging, so...."

Ethan runs his eyes over my face in a rather intimate way, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. It's making me anxious again, so I turn my back to him. I add two tablespoons of golden syrup to the pot and stir my mixture with the spoon I used to add the syrup until there's no more syrup sticking to it.

"Why don't you wear gloves?" Ethan asks when I swap the tablespoon for the big one and give my attention to the mixture slowly heating on the stove.

"It would have to be those thick heat-resistant ones, and as you said, I'm a bit of a klutz, imagine what I'll be like with gloves on."

I gasp, stiffening when he suddenly comes up behind me, putting his arms around me, hugging me. I thought he was sitting and staying; why is he standing and walking... and hugging?

"I won't make you do it again," he says. "Well, not alone. Let me stir."

He takes the spoon from me, and I step out of his arms to travel to safer countries, such as the section of the counter next to the stove where the cans of condensed milk are standing on their heads.

I do that because if the thick substance stands and drips until it's time to use them, it will be easier to get all the sticky milk from the tins later when I open them from their bottoms. When I add the condensed milk, I want to spend as little time as possible scraping the tins and still get as much of it into the pot as I can. I have a system. It works for me.

My system is already starting to feel all out of whack, having Ethan here in the kitchen with me. I've already had to turn my cans over more than once because he keeps on playing with them, and when I explained the beauty of dripping condensed milk to him, he blinked at me and snorted. According to him, my system is stupid. According to me, he can bite me...

Oh, wait... he already did that a little just now, and I nearly fainted with joy!

All biting activities are cancelled until further notice!

"The sugar is dissolved; what is the next step?" Ethan asks after a few minutes of docilely stirring the water in the pot.

"Now I turn up the heat," I say, turning up the heat. "And boil it for 10 minutes, giving it a good stir every couple of minutes."

"Okay," Ethan says, still stirring the pot.

"You should really preserve your stirring energy, Ethy, because when I add the condensed milk, it has to be stirred non-stop, constantly scraping the bottom for about 15 minutes."

"Seriously, Kicks, the fun factor is going down by the minute. I'm already sweating here," Ethan grumbles, and he really is sweating. To be fair, it is hot in Egret's Rest, and it's even hotter in our kitchen now; the area near the stove has turned into hell. Ethan's naturally high body heat often makes him suffer during summers. He is only comfortable in the heart of winter.

"It's okay, Ethy, I can do this. Why don't you go take a shower?" I try to take the spoon from him, but he holds me off with one hand, keeping me well out of reach. I never win in a tussle against him, and he never even has to try! It's so annoying!

I leave him to the stirring and crank up the air conditioner, directing the airflow towards him.

"Thanks," he grins and shrugging, I see to the task of opening the cans of condensed milk. Ethan alternates stirring with standing spreadeagled in the wind from the air-con, and when the timer goes off, I add the two 397g cans of condensed milk to the pot.

"We can take turns," I smile, when he starts the high-responsibility task of slowly stirring the mixture in overlapping figure 8's, scraping the bottom and sides all the time.

"I'm not letting this shit burn you," he says, putting himself between me and the pot. "What happens after 15 minutes in hell?"

"Actually, it could be more than 15 minutes," I inform him with a grimace. "It could be less too. I keep on checking the consistency when the texture starts to change. As soon as the bits I drip out cool to become more or less what I want it to become, you know, very slightly brittle, we take the pot off the stove, add a teaspoon vanilla essence - well, two, since I'm doing everything double - and stir it really quickly and pour it into the greased pans. We have to be really fast, or it will set in the pot, and then we'll have a mess."

I rub some margarine in the two large baking trays I've placed on the counter, and after watching Ethan suffer the heat for a couple of minutes, I do the next best thing to giving him a break. I wet a towel in the bathroom, push a chair closer to the stove and, standing on it, drape the wet towel over Ethan's head and shoulders where the aircon can blow on it to cool him down even more.

"I made you a head-con," I tell him, and he gives me an amused look. "A head aircon," I giggle.

"Thanks, it's helping."

I'm the perfect height now to look him straight in the eyes. This is fun. Ethan is really pretty from up here, and he doesn't look half as menacing as he always does when I have to look up at him. He is still stirring, but he is smiling at me, his thoughts clearly not with fudge anymore.

Without thinking about it, I place my hands on his shoulders and lean forward, resting my lips against his. I'm only vaguely aware of him letting go of the spoon, turning completely to wrap his arms around me, and deepening the kiss, which I'm pretty sure was just supposed to be a light peck.

Why did I even do that?!

"Ethan, the fudge!" I exclaim, scrambling off the chair and taking several steps away from him, gasping to get oxygen back into my lungs and, ultimately, my brain.

"Shit," he grunts and, grabbing the spoon, starts to stir in over-drive to make up for the few seconds the mixture just sat and bubbled, unstirred. "There are dark flecks. Did I mess it up now?"

I take a cautious step closer now that his attention is no longer trained on me. There are darker streaks in the browning mixture, but only a little bit, and there's none of the dreaded acrid burn smell detectable.

"No, I think it's going to be fine. Just don't stop again unless you want me to take over for a bit to give you a break."

While Ethan stirs and stirs and stirs some more, using his free hand to run the wet towel over his face and neck, I throw out the cans, put away the ingredients and wash the utensils I'd used. I am staying well clear of him now when I'm not dipping a teaspoon into the fudge to test the consistency when it cools.

Watching him from the corner of my eye, my mind constantly strays to how good his arms felt around me and how incredibly sweet and gentle that kiss was and just a little bit more intimate than it should've been.

What got into me? I wasn't saying goodbye or good luck, and I'm constantly lecturing him for randomly kissing me.

Perhaps he started to program me to be a kisser... like him. Now, whenever I remember instances of him kissing other girls, I get angry and irritated and feel almost hurt. Which is ridiculous since we're not in love with each other, and he didn't cheat on me. I especially get irritated thinking about Amber and what they used to do.

This is just an experiment... a project... I don't know what to call it, but it is becoming harder and harder to keep the purpose of our dating scheme clear in my mind... and my heart.

My heart needs to stay out of it!

The substance cooling on the tip of the spoon now is definitely fudgy; I might've left it too long already! I hastily grab the bottle of vanilla essence and, working together, Ethan holds the pot for me to add the Vanilla, and I give the mixture a couple of fast and thorough stirs before we pour the already hardening mixture into the trays, scraping the pot clean and levelling the fudge with the spoon.

We each grab a knife covered in butter and drag it horizontally and vertically through the fudge, creating squares. We have to work fast because the fudge is already setting and caking around our knives.

And it is done! The ugliest fudge in the world, but most probably the most delicious!

I turn to see Ethan grinning at me, proudly and happily glancing at the fudge we made. I use my knife to scoop a small corner piece from one of the trays and put it on the tabletop to cool.

"There's your taste test," I tell him, dropping my knife next to his on the table.

"Kicks," Ethan mutters, taking my forearms and pulling me towards him. I look up into his eyes, but they're completely unreadable now, dark and broody. I think I need to get on a chair again. "Promise me we'll never fight like that again and-"

"Ethan!" We both jump when Mr Fletcher's voice carries to us from somewhere beyond the kitchen.

"Your dad is looking for you," I say unnecessarily, and Ethan shrugs, pressing his lips together in an irritated line.

"Kicks..."

"Ethan! Where are you?!"

"Please go before he gets mad. I'll bring your fudge when it's cooled down enough to stuff in the bottles."

"Kicks..." he is not looking happy; the word "fudge" usually makes him very happy.

"Nahte, we fight all the time; how can I make a promise like that?"

His face is clouding over, his eyes becoming distant and strange again, scaring me.

"I think I know what you mean. I didn't like it either," I hurry to say, not sure if I really do know what he means, but I want to. "Let's not do that again."

"Okay," he whispers, but I cannot see his eyes now because he's bending over, touching his lips to mine and turning on his heels; he takes off towards the door, just pausing long enough to grab the piece of cooling fudge from the table.

♂♀

Note:- This flop-resistant recipe was once published by Hulett Sugar, and I always used it to bring some joy to the fudge-loving men in my life. My father, husband and sons.