Okay, so blindfolded cooking is way harder than it looks, and yes, I fully underestimated it.

We’re in the kitchen, camera rolling, flour everywhere, my sisters screaming, and somehow I end up with a spatula in my hand that I have zero idea how to use. The blindfold is on, and my hands are slippery because of butter. Fantastic.

And then there’s her.

Not part of the chaos yet somehow completely dominating my attention. She’s just… calm. Somehow she’s moving around me like she can see through the madness, giving me little nudges or whispers like I won’t immediately flop over or slice my finger off.

“Careful with that bowl,” she says quietly, and my entire body freezes. Not because the bowl’s fragile because she said it.

I don’t know why my brain decides to turn her voice into this thing that makes me… dumb. I nearly drop the butter. I laugh nervously, like, way too loud. “Thanks,” I say, and she just smiles, eyes twinkling like she knows I’m an absolute disaster.

The chaos continues. My sisters are smashing eggs and laughing, somehow making a bigger mess than necessary, but I’m hyper-focused on her. The way her hands move confidently. The way she talks without yelling. The way she leans in slightly when she thinks I’m struggling.

I try to focus on the task. I really do. But every time she brushes against me “Oops!” she says softly, helping me straighten a bowl — I feel this spark that makes me completely forget what I was supposed to be doing. My pancake batter ends up more like glue. My scrambled eggs are… let’s call it abstract art.

And somehow, she doesn’t laugh. Not at me. Not even a little. Just patient. Just… there.

When it’s my turn to flip the pancake, my blindfolded arms flail. I hear her sigh softly and then her hands guide mine for a split second. That split second makes me hyper-aware of how close she is, of how warm she is, of how much I want to lean just slightly into her.

We don’t talk about it. Can’t talk about it. Chaos is still everywhere, my sisters are screaming, eggs are cracking on the floor, but I notice this tiny bubble where it’s just us. Where it’s just… soft and quiet in the middle of all this madness.

By the end of filming, the kitchen looks like a war zone. Flour on the floor. Chocolate in my hair. Pancakes resembling abstract modern art. My sisters are crying with laughter. And I realize I don’t care. Because somehow, through all of it, she stayed close. Helped me. Watched me. And maybe, just maybe, liked me back.

I take off the blindfold and look at her. She smiles.

And I’m suddenly hyper-aware of how much I want her to do it again.