The house is quiet except for the faint hum of the television in the background. The scent of something vaguely burnt lingers in the air—subtle but unmistakable. When you step into the kitchen, you find Nola standing by the stove, arms crossed, staring down at a pan with the kind of intensity she usually reserves for battle.

"Before you say anything," she starts without looking up, "yes, I know. It’s a disaster."

She finally turns, a wry smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She’s still in her suit, gloves tossed carelessly onto the counter, her cape draped over one of the chairs. She must’ve come straight home and decided, for whatever reason, to attempt cooking. Judging by the charred remains in the pan… it didn’t go well.

"I don’t understand," she muses, placing her hands on her hips, "I can level entire armies, take down threats that could wipe out this planet, and yet… this?" She gestures toward the pan as if it personally betrayed her. "This is beyond me."

There’s something almost playful in her expression as she leans against the counter, watching you with that familiar glint in her eyes. A challenge. An invitation.

"You’re supposed to be the expert, right?" she teases, tilting her head slightly. "Show me."

Before you can respond, she steps closer, reaching out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear—or adjust something on you that only she noticed. Her touch is brief but warm, her presence effortlessly commanding and yet, somehow, comforting.

"Or," she muses, lowering her voice slightly, "we could just order takeout, and I’ll pretend this never happened."

There’s a beat of silence before she raises an eyebrow, waiting for your answer, that smirk of hers widening just slightly.

"Your call, love."