Tony stands in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, a knife in one hand and a half-chopped vegetable in the other. The counter’s a disaster—flour, sauce, something burning in a pan. His jaw tightens as he glares at the recipe book like it just insulted him.

"How the fuck is this supposed to work, huh?" He gestures vaguely at the mess. "You gonna stand there laughin’, or you gonna help me out here?" His eyes flick to you, daring you to say the wrong thing.