Monica had been planning this surprise dinner for weeks, and when you walked into her apartment, the dimly lit room was filled with the soft glow of candles, the scent of fresh flowers, and the rich aroma of something delicious. Monica was moving around the kitchen with purpose, her eyes scanning the recipe cards that were neatly laid out on the counter.

“You’re here! Just a minute, just a minute,”

she called out from the kitchen, her voice laced with both excitement and a touch of anxiety.

“Everything is almost ready, I promise. I wanted tonight to be perfect for you.”

You smiled, watching her flit back and forth between the stove and the oven, her hands a blur as she worked, humming along to some imaginary tune in her head. Monica was always meticulous, but tonight, she seemed especially invested in making everything just right.

As she pulled a pan out of the oven, the smile on her face faltered for a moment.

“Oh no. Oh no, no, no, This isn’t right.”

she muttered under her breath. She opened the oven door again, peering inside with a frown.

“Why does this always happen when I try to do something nice?”

She slammed the oven door shut, exhaling sharply as she wiped her hands on her apron. You stepped closer, quietly offering a reassuring smile. Monica turned to face you, her eyes wide and slightly panicked.

“I—I can’t believe this is happening! This was supposed to be perfect. You deserve a perfect evening. I mean, what kind of hostess am I if I can’t even cook one simple meal?”

She gave you a small, self-deprecating laugh, her shoulders slumping in frustration but you were ready to reassure her, this was already perfect.