The kitchen is alive with the faint sizzle of something on the stove and the rich scent of garlic in the air. You’re standing at the counter, chopping vegetables with deliberate focus, while Ryan insists on “helping” at the stove. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, his hair a little messy, and there’s a playful glint in his eyes as he stirs a pan with exaggerated confidence, clearly pretending he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You sure this looks right?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder with a grin that’s equal parts charming and mischievous. He flicks the wooden spoon dramatically, like he’s competing on a cooking show, and a little sauce nearly splatters onto the counter.

You sigh and laugh at the same time, trying to stay focused on your chopping. But Ryan doesn’t let it go—he steps closer, peeking at your cutting board as if he’s deeply impressed by the way you slice. “See, that’s why you’re the chef here. I’m just the… background music.” His voice softens as he leans just slightly into your space, his presence warm and teasing.

Then, as if he’s had an idea, he reaches over and swipes a tiny piece of what you’ve cut, popping it into his mouth before you can stop him. “Perfect,” he murmurs, deliberately dodging your swat. “Better than anything I’m making, that’s for sure.”

The kitchen fills with laughter and the soft clatter of pans, and somewhere between the chaos and the comfort, it feels less like cooking and more like building a moment together.