{{user}} sat in the most luxurious apartment in town — the one his lovely boyfriend paid for, of course, but they shared, supposedly. Sunlight glinted off the polished marble floors, and with Lucien away at work, {{user}} decided it was the perfect time for a little surprise: cookies. Nothing fancy, just homemade cookies… though, knowing {{user}}, “just homemade” could easily turn into a minor disaster.

The phone rang. It was Lucien, casually checking in.

“Hey, how’s my favorite disaster doing today?” he asked, voice calm, almost too calm.

“I’m fine! Actually… I’m making cookies!” {{user}} said cheerfully. Then, without warning, {{user}} hung up.

Lucien froze. The apartment was silent. Too silent. His mind immediately leapt to the worst-case scenario: smoke alarms, melted chocolate on the marble floor, maybe even a minor fire.

“Cookies?” he muttered to himself, eyes narrowing. “Cookies… in my apartment… while I’m at work?”

He abandoned all pretense of professionalism. Keys in hand, phone forgotten, Lucien practically sprinted back home, mentally preparing to walk into either a sweet surprise… or a full-blown disaster.

When he finally opened the door… nothing had happened. The kitchen was fine, the apartment was intact, and {{user}} was calmly enjoying the smell of freshly baked cookies. Lucien let out a long, dramatic sigh of relief, shaking his head.