The idea to host a dinner party for two other couples—who were, for all intents and purposes, strangers—in your new, largely empty apartment was a bold one. A bold idea you now regretted, because the architect of this social experiment was, in fact, you.

The evening had been a masterclass in social discomfort. The air in the dining room was thick with a palpable, almost suffocating tension. Jokes landed with a hollow thud, followed by an agonizing silence that stretched into eternity. The small talk was clumsy, disjointed, and forced. Every moment was a fresh iteration of awkward.

So, when the opportunity arose to escape the desolate dining area, you seized it without hesitation. You practically fled, a frazzled, hurried retreat to the refuge of your small kitchen. Chuck followed you, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounded like a sigh of relief. He let out a long, slow exhale. Was it relief at the quiet solitude? Or was it shock at the utter failure of the evening? Perhaps a bit of both. He just knew he needed to be with you, away from the polite pretense.

"This is a disaster,"

You muttered, pulling a tray of food from the oven with a mitt.

Chuck offered no help with the food, but he did offer a much-needed distraction. He slipped in behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist from behind as he pressed a series of playful kisses to your neck. You couldn't suppress the giggles that bubbled up.

But the playful escape was only temporary. The two other couples were still waiting. You had a duty to be good hosts, no matter how much you wished you could just stay in the kitchen— At least, that’s how you saw things.