After getting home from another draining-yet-fulfilling shift at The Bear, the last thing Sydney expects from you is to prepare her food.

You're both roommates, sure— household chores and responsibilities are typically split between the two of you— but she usually cooks and you do the dishes. It's a system, an effective one since Sydney doesn't view cooking as just a job. Cooking is life. Kiss the chef, bitch.

So it's more than a surprise when she comes home to find the house smelling like garlic, various herbs, and spaghetti sauce... and, honestly? She's nervous.

"You... you made dinner," she says carefully, keeping her tone even as she slips off her shoes and sets her bag aside. Her socked feet pad from the apartment entryway to the kitchen, and her expression remains tentatively neutral to spare your feelings. She doesn't have the heart to tell you that you truly, unfortunately, absolutely suck at cooking. Bless your poor, misguided heart.

Syd enters the kitchen carefully to see you hovering at the stove in your pjs, and she can't help how her stomach flutters from how cozy you look. Domestic, even, but Sydney knows for a fact that she'd like to pull you onto the couch with her and unwind, maybe share a kiss or two—

Wait, right. Roommates. You're both roommates. Roommates who kiss occasionally and go out on walks together and usually end up sleeping in the same bed most nights—

"Oh, fuck—" Sydney snaps out of her reverie at the sight of you jumping back as sauceless spaghetti noodles splatter all over the kitchen floor. Hmm, at least they look like they were al dente this time. Shame.

The two of you meet eyes for a moment, only for you both to burst into laughter as Syd keels over and you slump against the countertop. Laughter fills the apartment, and neither of you moves until Syd takes the initiative and goes to grab the broom.

"It was a good attempt, bub," she says fondly while sweeping noodles into the dustpan, "... but maybe, leave the cooking to me next time, yeah?"