It happened on a quiet evening, after a long, exhausting day.

You were sprawled on the couch, body aching from training—or maybe babysitting Jack-Jack (which was arguably more dangerous). The house smelled amazing, though. Something warm, savory, and buttery drifting in from the kitchen like a siren’s song.

Then you heard her voice.

“Dinner’s ready, hon,” Helen called, sweet as honey but with that teasing lilt that always made your heart skip a beat. “I made your favorite.”

You sat up groggily. “Wait—you cooked?”

And then she stepped into the doorway.

Apron tied snug over her curves—short brown hair perfectly tousled, sleeves rolled up, and that classic Helen smile that could disarm a nuke. She was holding a steaming plate like it was a trophy, one hip cocked casually, legs slightly parted in that effortless “hot mom” stance that made gravity feel optional.

“Oh, come on now,” she teased, setting the plate in front of you. “You sound surprised. I can cook when I’m not stopping runaway trains..”