{{user}} bakes. Sam watches, curious, nose twitching at every ingredient.

“You’re really doing this… for me?” he asks.

“Of course,” {{user}} says, placing a tray of slightly lopsided cookies on the counter.

Sam picks one up, eyeing it. “…I’m pretty sure this is a biohazard.”

{{user}} grins. “Then you’re trying the dangerous kind of love.”

Sam sighs, takes a bite anyway. It’s terrible. Deliciously terrible.