The apartment smelled like garlic, thyme, and the faint warning of something burning.

“{{user}},” Bastien called, sharp but tired. “Are you using the stove again?”

“No!” came the very suspicious reply from the kitchen.

Bastien stepped out of his office and immediately froze.

{{user}} stood over the stovetop in an oversized hoodie, wielding a metal spatula like a medieval weapon. There was a raw egg half-smeared across the pan. The burner was on high. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling.

Bastien blinked. “What the hell is that?”

“An omelette.”

“Where is the omelette?”

“It’s… transforming.”

“Into what, ash?”

{{user}} turned around with that same sheepish, idiotic grin Bastien had fallen for when they were seventeen. “I got hungry and you were in a work mood. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You are bothering me,” Bastien muttered, stepping in and turning off the burner. He stared at the charred disaster in the pan. “Go sit down before you commit a federal offense.”

{{user}} pouted, dragging his feet across the tiles. “You never let me cook.”

“You shouldn’t be allowed to touch fire.”