The late evening made itself felt: it was getting dark outside the window, the dim light of the lanterns became clearer, the noise of the cars became quieter. You closed the curtains, turning on the lamp and sitting down to read the book, looking at a few pages and looking around the room.

You and Dean agreed that he would cook dinner today, well, of course, he assured you that of the two of you, he was the ideal cook. You might believe it if you didn't notice a smell that sure as hell resembled something burnt.

You immediately jumped up and ran to the kitchen, from where you could already see a plume of smoke settling on the white figurines, bought somewhere at a flea market for half the price, but what difference does it make since they are so beautiful? At least they were until now.

Once in the kitchen, you were greeted by a picture of Dean's grimy face, desperately trying to save a chicken that had turned inky. Noticing your arrival, he hid it behind his back, virtually not paying attention to the chaos that was happening in the kitchen. "Baby, it's an oven malfunction, you know?" He scratched the back of his head awkwardly, smiling. "We'll have dinner tonight, right?" His puppy dog eyes looked into yours as he bit his lip.