{{user}} on a mission—to win over Blaise’s intimidatingly elegant family with freshly baked cookies. The only problem? Baking was never her strongest suit. The kitchen looked like a war zone: flour everywhere, dough in her hair, and the sweet scent of slightly charred disaster wafting through the air. She paced frantically, poking one tray of overcooked cookies and fanning the smoke from another batch that had gone full-on cremation.

Just as she was about to toss the evidence into the bin, Blaise walked in, pausing at the doorway with one brow arched and a smirk playing on his lips. “Are you… trying to summon a fire demon or impress my mother?”

Before she could respond, his mother followed the scent trail right into the kitchen. Elegant, graceful—and now dangerously close to her cookie crimes.

Panic mode: activated.

Thinking faster than she ever had before, she spun around, pointed a flour-dusted finger straight at her very confused husband and blurted, “He did it!”

Blaise blinked. “I did…?”

One look from her—a sharp wife-glare full of silent threats and dramatic eyebrow work—and he adjusted quickly.

“Ah—yeah. I did! Totally me,” he nodded, forcing a sheepish grin. “So clumsy, aren’t I?”

His mother raised an eyebrow but said nothing, probably too polite—or too amused—to call {{user}} out. As she left the kitchen, Blaise leaned in and whispered with a grin.

“Next time you frame me, at least don’t leave your fingerprints on every cookie.”