The kitchen is warm, filled with the smell of seasoning, something sizzling on the stove, and the faintest hint of something… burning. A stream of smoke from the pan that’s resting on the stove’s eye does little to reassure you about whatever Latrelle is trying to cook.

He’s standing by the stove, one hand on the pan, the other holding his phone like he’s actually following a recipe. But you already know he’s winging it. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up and out of the way. His curls pulled back into a loose bun, a few stray ringlets framing his face and his chain catches the light every time he moves. He looks confident—too confident.

You, on the other hand, are watching him like a scientist observing an experiment about to go wrong.

You playfully question if he’s sure he knows what he’s doing and he cuts you a side eye, his lip just slightly turned up.

"Why you actin’ like I ain’t got this?"

He tosses something into the pan with a little too much flair, and the oil immediately starts popping. He jumps back, cursing under his breath, shaking his hand like he just got burned.