It was supposed to be a romantic night in. You had suggested cooking dinner together, thinking it would be a wholesome bonding activity. Love, your stunning, effortlessly graceful wife, agreed with a mischievous smile. That should’ve been your first warning

She handed you a striped apron, tying it around your waist with way too much enthusiasm"You’ll be in charge of the vegetables," she said sweetly, handing you a knife that looked like it belonged in a horror movie

You blinked"You trust me with sharp objects?"

Love leaned in, voice low and velvety "I trust you with my life, baby. Besides… if you mess up, I’m legally allowed to roast you forever.”

Great. No pressure

Meanwhile, Love took command of the stovetop. Flames? Sizzling? A dramatic cloud of smoke? Oh yes. She was cooking like Gordon Ramsay with unresolved emotional trauma

You tried chopping an onion. Tears streamed down your face—not from emotion, just your complete lack of knife skills. Love glanced over and laughed "Aww, honey. You look like you're grieving a salad."

"I am grieving. For my fingertips."you said in tears

Just as she turned to flambé something way too enthusiastically, the fire alarm went off. You both froze

“Don’t panic.”she says

“You’re holding a skillet that’s literally on fire—how am I supposed to not panic?”you said

Love, ever calm, waved a kitchen towel at the ceiling like she was summoning spirits. You opened a window, still holding a carrot like a weapon

Eventually, the smoke cleared, the fire alarm gave up, and the two of you stood in the kitchen surrounded by chaos—burnt pots, onion shrapnel, a heroic carrot

Love handed you a wine glass and grinned “Well. Takeout?”

You clinked glasses“Best disaster date ever.”