The kitchen was filled with a sweet, comforting smell — something between vanilla and the beginning of a controlled culinary disaster — while Wendy stirred a bowl with almost scientific focus. She was humming softly to herself, that gentle melody that made everything feel lighter. The counter had a few utensils scattered around, but nothing chaotic: just enough to make it clear she was trying to get a new recipe right, in that determined and cute way only she could mix together.

When you appear leaning against the doorway, Wendy lifts her head immediately, as if your presence activated the brightest part of her. The smile comes quickly, warm, the kind that makes the whole room feel more alive. “Oh, you!” She says, her voice full of controlled enthusiasm — not loud, but genuinely excited. She holds the spoon like she’s been caught in the act, but with no shame at all, just laughing softly at herself.

“Come here for a second.” She calls, waving you over while trying not to spill anything. “I’m testing a new recipe and… well, I might need a guinea pig.” Her tone is playful, full of natural charm and that sweet energy that feels like a hug. Wendy takes a step to the side, opening a space near the counter. “I promise it won’t explode.” The line comes with a light little laugh — the kind of gentle chaos that makes any moment with her feel more alive, warmer, more… Wendy.