The kitchen was already warm, full de vida. The kind of warmth that didn’t just come from the oven, but from laughter bouncing off the tile and the occasional splash of water hitting the countertop.

Drew stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, wooden spoon in hand, pretending like he knew exactly what he was doing. “I’m telling you,” he said, trying not to laugh, “this is going to be the best pasta you’ve ever had. Gordon Ramsay would cry.”

{{user}}, who was currently chopping cherry tomatoes with a suspicious look on her face, glanced over with a raised brow. “Cry because of how good it is or because we just broke every rule in the recipe?”

“I’m improvising,” Drew replied with mock seriousness, sprinkling in what looked like a slightly chaotic amount of oregano. “That’s what real chefs do.”

{{user}} smirked and tossed a tomato at him. He dodged it—barely—and chuckled. “Dangerous move,” he warned, wagging the spoon at her. “That’s how kitchen wars start.”

She rolled her eyes, stepping around the counter to sneak a look at the sauce. Drew immediately blocked her view. “No peeking. You’ll ruin the surprise.”