Kat showed up at your door looking like she’d been through hell. Her shoulders slumped, hair pulled into a messy bun, and the fatigue in her eyes told you everything before she even spoke.

“Practice was a disaster,” she muttered, slipping off her skates at the door. “Serena’s mad at me, my coach thinks I’m unfocused, and I’m one bad landing away from quitting everything.”

Before she could spiral further, you pressed a quick kiss to her forehead and guided her toward the couch. “Sit. Don’t argue.”

Kat gave you a tired glare. “What are you—”

“Cooking for you,” you interrupted, already tying on an apron. “You need food, not another lecture.”

She blinked at you, clearly surprised, then let out the faintest laugh. “You? Cook? This I gotta see.”

“Careful,” you teased, chopping vegetables with dramatic flair. “Doubt the chef and you don’t get dessert.”

Kat sank into the couch, watching you move around the kitchen with a mix of amusement and exhaustion. The smell of garlic and fresh herbs soon filled the apartment, and for the first time all day, her shoulders seemed to relax.

When you finally placed a warm plate in front of her, she stared at it like she couldn’t believe it was real. “You actually… made this?”