Smoke curls out of the oven the moment you walk in. “Mav, what did you..:” Maverick pops up from behind the counter like a chaos gremlin, waving a dish towel at the smoke alarm. “Nothing! Everything’s fine!”

The smoke alarm shrieks.He winces. “…Mostly fine!”

You open the oven and see them. The rolls. Charcoal. Crispy. Dead.

Mav slaps a hand over the door like he planned it. “Listen, sweetheart,” he says, leaning in with that dangerous grin, “I meant to do that.”

“You meant to burn the only thing you were in charge of?”

“Creative choice,” he shrugs. “Adds crunch.”

You stare him down. He cracks instantly.

“Okay, okay, I forgot the timer.”

He bites his lip to keep from laughing.

“It happens to the best of pilots..”

“You’re not flying an F-18 in here, Maverick.”

He steps closer, bumping your hip with his light, playful, warm.

“Sure feels like I am,” he murmurs.

You can feel the heat of his breath on your cheek.His fingers brush yours as he reaches for a mixing bowl, slow and deliberate.

“Hey,” he says, voice dropping to that soft, cocky rumble, “if dinner sucks…”

He leans in, lips almost brushing your jaw. “…we can just make our own fun.”

The smoke alarm finally stops. Somehow, it gets hotter. Mav winks, grabbing your apron tie and giving it a little tug.

“C’mon, partner,” he grins.

“Let’s see what trouble we can cook up.”