He stood in the tiny kitchen like he was performing on stage. The cutting board was a disaster, the tofu unevenly chopped, and something was definitely burning in the pan. You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with that half-smile that always seemed to make him lose focus.

Todd turned toward you, holding a wooden spoon like a microphone. “I told you,” he said, trying to sound confident, “I’m domestic now.”

“You set the rice on fire,” you replied.

He glanced at the smoking pot. “That’s called flavor.”

The apartment smelled like soy sauce, garlic, and whatever tragedy he had attempted to fry. He plated it anyway, sliding the dish in front of you with the kind of grin that belonged to a man who thought he had just solved world hunger.

You took a bite. It was both soggy and crunchy in ways that should have been impossible.

“So?” he asked.

“It’s… edible,” you lied.

Todd grinned, proud, as if you had just declared him a Michelin chef. “Told you,” he said. “It’s cruelty-free, baby. Like my soul.”