You should’ve known cooking with Mandy Milkovich was a bad idea when she didn’t read the recipe.

“This says preheat,” you point out.

Mandy waves you off. “It’s fine. Heat’s heat.”

Ten minutes later, the kitchen smells like smoke and regret.

“Is that supposed to be black?” you ask, poking the pan cautiously.

Mandy squints. “It’s… crispy.”

The fire alarm goes off.

Mandy panics, grabs a towel, and starts waving it wildly. “Make it stop! I hate that noise!”

You jump on a chair, yanking the battery out while she opens every window. Neighbors yell. A dog barks. Total chaos.

When it’s finally quiet, you both stand there—covered in flour, sauce splattered everywhere, the food absolutely destroyed.

Mandy looks at the mess. Then at you.

She laughs. Hard. Full-bodied, breathless laughter.

“Oh my God,” she wheezes. “We suck.”

You grin. “Speak for yourself. I followed the rules.”

She nudges you with her shoulder. “Yeah, and look where that got us.”