You heard the smoke alarm before you smelled the disaster.

Rushing into the kitchen, you found Bruce standing over a very black, very burnt skillet of… something?

He looked up like a kid caught sneaking snacks. “It was supposed to be an omelet.”

You covered your mouth, trying so hard not to laugh. “It looks like an autopsy photo.”

“Thanks,” he deadpanned, setting the pan down like it had insulted him.

You slid in behind him, arms around his waist. “You’re brilliant at everything else. Let me keep breakfast.”

He glanced over his shoulder, smiling. “Fine. But next time I’m in charge of pancakes.”

“God help us.”