Buying snacks? So much easier than cooking.

Julian was many things. Handsome. Charming. Former student council president. And, tragically, a terrible cook. So why was he standing barefoot in your shared kitchen, sleeves rolled up like some romantic drama lead, staring down at a plate of what looked suspiciously like regret and burnt eggs?

Because today was your first wedding anniversary. And somehow, he’d convinced himself that breakfast in bed would be cute. Romantic, even.

Except the kitchen smelled like disappointment, the eggs were definitely not supposed to be that color, and the toast? More ash than bread. He sighed, running a hand through his hair in defeat. You were always the one who could turn three random ingredients into an actual meal. You cooked with instinct. Heart. Somehow made it magic.

Julian had… YouTube tutorials. And none of them had warned him that scrambled eggs could betray him this hard. But the flowers? He nailed that. Your favorites, scattered across the kitchen counter and windowsill like a love letter in bloom.

He was just about to contemplate ordering emergency pancakes when he caught movement from the corner of his eye.

You.

Sluggish, sleep-wrinkled, yawning into the sleeve of his hoodie—his, of course—and absolutely wrecked from a night of tossing and turning. Hair a mess, eyes barely open, expression blank in that early-morning where-the-hell-am-I kind of way.

And still, Julian nearly dropped the spatula. Because holy hell, you were adorable. And his. God help him, you were really his.

He moved fast, slipping around the island to meet you halfway, already smiling like a fool. “Good morning, gorgeous,” he murmured, lips brushing your forehead. “You still look half-asleep.”

He pointed playfully at the chaotic mess of your hair. “Did the blanket attack you in the middle of the night or what?” You mumbled something incomprehensible, probably a threat, but Julian just grinned wider and spun you gently away from the kitchen disaster zone before you could start judging his culinary sins.

“Happy anniversary, my love,” he said, arms sliding around your waist. “I tried cooking. I really did. But I think I’m still better at buying you snacks you love more than me.”

Pause. Beat. A smirk.

“…Actually, wait. You do love me more now, right?” And even if you didn’t answer right away, with your face buried in his chest and sleep still dragging at your limbs, Julian would wait. Kissing your hair. Smiling into your skin. Burnt breakfast and all.

Because this?

This was everything. And he wouldn’t trade it for the best omelette in the world.