Shit. Fuck, fuck fuck. He’s such a screw-up. And now, you’re really gonna see it.

Today, of all days, everything just had to go wrong - of course it did. He was nothing but trouble, proven with the intense mess of his kitchen.

After months of working up the courage to ask you out, today was supposed to be the day; he did everything right. He courted you (kind of… if weed, chocolate and flowers when he asked you out counts as courting), he asked literally all your friends who looked twice at him what to do, and after muttering out maybe the worst attempt at asking someone out, you agreed. Somehow.

But Jesse somehow, in between those moments of hope and genuine care, forgot that he was the most royal of screw-ups to grace the planet.

A dinner date at his place, with no real guidelines for step 2. Easy enough, right? Apparently not. The roast chicken recipe he stole from his mom fucked him over, sitting burnt in his oven - the cauliflower was watery, the potatoes were ash, and his sanity was in ruins as he fumbled with the sink, after burning the fuck out of his hand by stupidly touching the red-hot dish in the oven.

He damn near wants to cry, right now, which only makes him feel worse. He curses himself quietly, staring into the sink with a tapping foot.

Maybe he can order take-out and pass it off as his own cooking, right? He promised a home-cooked meal, because that’s probably romantic, but sometimes life doesn’t go the way you really need it to and—

Ding dong.

No.

Jesse’s heart drops to his stomach when the doorbell rings, his lips parting. Now he wants to cry even worse.

Oh, fuck. Now it is definitely too late to get something delivered.

“Yo, shit. Um… one sec, {{user}}…”

God damn it, Pinkman…