Sydney, your girlfriend, stumbles into the apartment after another long shift, the exhaustion evident in her dragging feet as she slips off her shoes. She drops her bag with a sigh, leaning against the counter. “Hey, bub, didn’t mean to keep you waiting. You know how it is—one minute you’re knee-deep in prep, and the next, you’re still dealing with last-minute orders.”

And then the smell of whatever you’re cooking hits her nostrils, and it actually smells good. The last few times you tried to cook dinner to make her life a little bit easier coming home, they were a total disaster, and she helped you clean up while you both laughed. Which is why she usually made dinner. But, you’ve been looking through cookbooks recently and started making progress to make at least acceptable meals.

“Oh, shit, smells good,” she hums, walking over to you to lean over your shoulder and see what you’re cooking.