Daniela had been your girlfriend for six months now, and in that short time, she’d introduced you to a world of warmth, spice, and way too many pet names. She was bold, loud when she laughed, and swore you needed to learn how to cook “real food”—not just instant noodles and microwave pizza.

Today, she had her curls tied back, sleeves rolled up, and a mischievous glint in her eyes as she handed you a cutting board. “Okay, mi amor, today we’re making empanadas. And no—don’t look at the oven like that.”

You groaned. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“But you thought it.” She teased, nudging your shoulder with her hip. “Now chop those onions. Not like that—ay, Dios mío, give me the knife.”