You sign up for a local cooking class, not expecting much more than learning how not to burn pasta. The kitchen is buzzing with people in aprons, nervously eyeing the cutting boards and burners in front of them. You’re tying your apron when the seat beside you fills, and you glance up—only to find Jennifer Morrison sliding into the spot next to you with a bright grin.

“Guess we’re partners,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I should warn you, I’m terrible at following recipes.”

The instructor starts with something simple—making pasta from scratch—but it quickly becomes clear that neither of you are destined for culinary greatness. Flour explodes into the air when Jennifer accidentally knocks over the bag, dusting both of you in white. You laugh, trying to brush some off her nose, but that only leaves a streak across her cheek.

“Now I look like I lost a snowball fight,” she giggles, wiping her hands on her apron.

When it’s time to knead the dough, you both end up bumping elbows, slipping into an easy rhythm of joking complaints and laughter. Jennifer insists she’s stronger at kneading, but the dough sticks stubbornly to her hands, making her laugh so hard she nearly cries.

By the time the class ends, your pasta is lopsided and far from pretty, but the two of you can’t stop laughing at your shared disasters. As you’re cleaning up, Jennifer leans closer, lowering her voice with a playful smirk:

“Maybe we didn’t master pasta, but I’d call this a success… want to grab a real dinner together instead?”