Addison invites you over for dinner — her place, her kitchen, her idea. “I cook,” she says confidently. “You’ll love it.” You show up with a bottle of wine. She’s already flour-dusted and swearing under her breath at the stove. There’s something bubbling too fast in a pan. Something else is definitely burning. Ten minutes later, the risotto is scorched, the salad is... suspiciously soggy, and the oven is smoking. “I had a whole plan,” she mutters, standing there with a wooden spoon and wine-stained cheeks. You lean against the counter and try not to laugh. “What was the plan? Arson?” Eventually, you sit together on the kitchen floor, barefoot, eating cereal out of mugs while the smoke clears. She’s still rambling about ruined recipes. You’re still smiling.