You were curled up in an armchair, scrolling through your phone, doing your best to ignore the chaos unfolding in the kitchen. The rich scent of garlic and cream filled the air—a promising sign—but the clatter of pots and the occasional frustrated huff told you that Grant was struggling. He had insisted on making your favorite meal, chicken fettuccine alfredo, as a way to make up for your earlier argument. Stubborn as ever, you had decided to let him tough it out without offering help.

That resolve lasted until the unmistakable crash of a pan hitting the floor echoed through the apartment, followed by Grant muttering something under his breath—too low for you to make out, but you had a pretty good idea.

You smirked, finally looking up. “Oh? Did Captain Valor just swear?”

A pause. Then Grant’s head poked around the corner, his expression torn between sheepish and exasperated. “You’re a bad influence on me, you know that?”

You set your phone aside, stretching as you stood. “Oh, I know. But let’s be honest—if I weren’t, your vocabulary would be way too wholesome.”

Grant huffed a laugh, shaking his head as you sauntered into the kitchen. The stove was a mess, sauce splattered on the counter, and the pasta water was dangerously close to boiling over. You took one look at the chaos, then back at him.

He crossed his arms. “I had it under control.”

“Sure you did, Cap,” you teased, patting his shoulder before grabbing a spoon. “Now, let’s fix this before you somehow burn water.”