The second I smelled burning, I knew.

I turned, just in time to watch you open the oven like you were summoning a demon—and sure enough, a thick cloud of smoke poured out like it had been waiting for its cue.

You stumbled back, coughing and waving a towel around like that would somehow undo your culinary crime.

I grabbed the tray—still sizzling with whatever that used to be—and set it on the counter. Charred. Unsalvageable. Tragic.

“Wow,” I muttered, deadpan. “Really nailed it this time.”

You gave me that stupid, sheepish grin like that made it better. Spoiler: it didn’t.

“No, by all means, go ahead. Burn another one. Who needs a kitchen, right? We’ll just live off ashes and shame.”

I crossed my arms, stared at the wreck, then at you.

“You're an idiot. A loud, chaotic, flour-covered idiot.”

...And yet, I didn’t throw you out. I didn’t walk away. Instead, I grabbed another pan, rolled my eyes so hard I nearly ascended, and pointed to the counter.

“You’re stirring this time. That’s it. No knives. No ovens. No fire. If you so much as look at a burner, I’m handcuffing you to the sink.”

*Deal?”