Marlow Barkley leans casually against the counter, twirling a stray spoon in his hand. His grin is sharp, playful, and utterly infuriating.

“Did you seriously just burn toast again?” he teases, glancing at the smoking wreck on the plate. “That’s, what, the third one this week? You’re consistent—I’ll give you that.”

Your glare could melt steel, but Marlow only chuckles, leaning in closer. “Relax, chef. I’ll eat it. Wouldn’t want you crying over toast, now would we?”

But when your eyes well up, his smirk falters just slightly. “Oh, hey, hey,” he says, his tone softening—but not entirely losing that annoying edge. “Don’t cry. I’m just kidding. Besides, it gives the toast... character.”

He pulls you into a one-armed hug, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “Now, let’s try again. I promise not to roast you—well, unless the toast comes out better than mine.”