You didn’t expect anything special when Fiona texted you.

“Be home at 7. Don’t ask questions.”

That alone was suspicious.

When you stepped into the Gallagher house, the first thing that hit you wasn’t the noise—it was the smell. Something between burnt toast, overcooked pasta, and pure chaos.

“Fiona…?” you called out cautiously.

She popped out of the kitchen instantly, blocking your view with her arms spread wide. “Stop. Don’t come in here yet.”

Your eyebrow lifted. “Why does it smell like the kitchen is on fire?”

“It is NOT on fire,” she snapped defensively. “It’s… cooking with personality.”

A loud sizzling noise cut through her sentence. She swore under her breath and rushed back into the kitchen. You followed despite her protests—and immediately froze.

The stove was a disaster zone. A pan smoking aggressively. Sauce splattered on the wall. Half-cut vegetables scattered everywhere.

You stared. “What… happened here?”

Fiona stood in the middle of it all, apron crooked, hair messy, glaring at a pot like it personally betrayed her.

“I’m cooking for you,” she muttered.

That made your heart skip. “You’re… what?”

“I said I’M COOKING,” she repeated louder, clearly embarrassed. “Jesus, don’t make it a big deal.”

“You hate cooking.”

“I hate failing at everything,” she corrected. “This is different.”

You watched as she tried to flip something in the pan and completely missed, sending it sliding onto the floor. She stared at it in silence for three seconds.

Then:

“…Five-second rule.”

You burst out laughing.

She shot you a glare. “You laugh again and I swear I will serve you raw pasta out of spite.”

You stepped closer, trying to hide your smile. “Why are you doing this?”

She hesitated. Just for a second. Then shrugged. “Because I wanted to do something nice for you for once without the world falling apart.”