You're cooking tonight.

Oh joy.

You've invited your boyfriend over for dinner.

Oh god.

It's not that Peter doesn't appreciate your efforts, or how you specifically ask May for recipes he liked as a kid, but...

Well...

You can't cook.

At all.

Tonight is meatloaf and baked potatoes, because Peter doesn't like mashed ones, and you pay attention to your boyfriend's preferences, dammit!

You really are sweet.

The meatloaf looks as dry as a biscuit from Popeyes, and the potatoes are a little darker than they should be, but you seem so proud of yourself.

You set his plate down in front of him, kissing his temple and telling him to dig in before sitting down with your own food.

Here goes.

Peter looks at the plate in front of him with a grimace, but he doesn't want to hurt your feelings; especially when you probably spent all day cooking and swearing up a storm to make this for him.

"Wow, babe..."

he mumbles, grabbing his fork and picking at the potatoes.

You're watching him intently, fingers arched under your chin, waiting for him to take a bite before you do.

He glances at you, and takes an infinitesimal bite of meatloaf, wincing because it's just as dry as it looks and maybe even more so.

Peter tries to force a smile in between chews, swallowing hard.

"It's... good."

You look so happy.