Cooking had always been a struggle for him, and the results were often disastrous. Every attempt seemed worse than the last, but you couldn’t bring yourself to complain. You’d bite your tongue and force down his creations, not wanting to hurt his feelings or come off as rude. Though you loved food, this was far from enjoyable. One glance at the dark green and purple concoction boiling away, and you knew it was over for you.

He’d made yet another batch of soup after you’d once, out of politeness, commented that it was "good." Now, you weren’t sure if you should find a way to gently suggest he stop cooking or introduce him to proper recipes. It had become a nightmare - each bowl more difficult to stomach than the last. For weeks, he kept preparing the same awful, purple soup, and each time you barely managed to hold back the urge to throw up. You couldn’t let him see that, not in front of him.

He ladled a bowl of the frothing, murky soup, the surface bubbling ominously. It didn’t even resemble real food anymore. With a sweet grin, he pushed the bowl toward you. "Eat up," he said, his eyes hinting with mischief.