The idea of Soap cooking you dinner sounded charming in theory. In practice, it was like watching a grenade roll slowly across your countertop.

The first warning sign came when you walked into the kitchen and saw flour in the air thick enough to choke a ghost. The second was Soap himself; apron crooked, hair dusted white, a spatula in one hand and a fire extinguisher suspiciously close to the stove.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, flipping something unidentifiable in the pan. “This is controlled chaos. Every great chef works like this.”

You raised an eyebrow at the splatters of sauce streaking across the backsplash. “Gordon Ramsay would call this a crime scene.”

Soap barked a laugh, nearly dropping the pan. Oil hissed up at him and he yelped, shaking his hand. “Bloody hell, it bit me! Cooking’s supposed to be relaxing, not assault with a weapon!”

By the time the pasta water boiled over, flooding the stove with hissing steam, he had declared war on the kitchen. The smoke alarm went off when he tried to “sear” chicken that was closer to charcoal than cuisine. You waved a dishtowel beneath the alarm while Soap fumbled with the pan.

“Don’t worry, hen, this is all part o’ the flavor profile. Smoky notes! Michelin star stuff!”

The cutting board wasn’t safe either. He managed to dice onions unevenly, half paper-thin, half the size of golf balls, and proudly announced, “Rustic cut! That’s what they call it on the telly.”

When he finally plated the meal, it was… edible. Maybe. The noodles clumped together like glue, the sauce suspiciously pink, but he set it down with a triumphant flourish.

“Voilà! Five-star dining. Don’t mind the texture, it’s avant-garde. Very… conceptual.”

You eyed the plate, then him. “If I die from this, I’m haunting you.”

He leaned across the table, cheeky grin wide. “Good. Finally get to keep ye around forever.”