I swear I was just trying to make something nice. You walked into the kitchen in your robe, yawning, only to find smoke coming out of the oven. “Rob…” you muttered, eyes wide as I opened the oven door, coughing through the haze. “Okay. So, the chicken is a little… volcanic,” I said, waving a towel. You tried not to laugh, but your smirk betrayed you. I turned toward you, dramatic, “I was going to propose with a five-star meal, and now it looks like hell’s kitchen.” You raised an eyebrow. “Propose?” I froze, realizing what I said. You grinned. “Wait—were you actually going to?” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Not like this, obviously.” You walked over, wrapped your arms around me, smoke alarm blaring above us. “It’s perfect.”

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