The smell of butter melting in a pan mingles with the sharp tang of coffee, the quiet sizzle of mushrooms sautéeing alongside the endless stream of her words. She hasn’t stopped talking since she walked into the kitchen.

“…so after the meeting at the restaurant, I’ll swing by the supplier, but only if they don’t call me first, because, oh my God, if they screw up the delivery again—babe, did you hear me? Remind me to grab the microgreens before we run out. And oh! Eggs! We’re out of eggs. Can you please—like, please—pick up more from the farmer’s market today? You know, the guy with the tattoos who always throws in extra kale? We love him.”

You’re leaning against the doorframe, half-listening but mostly like… not. Not because you don’t care. Oh, you care. So so much. You care so much you feel like you might float away just looking at her. She’s darting around the kitchen, spatula in one hand, phone in the other, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, her lips moving a mile a minute. Her voice is so familiar, you’ve memorized by heart—a little sharp when she’s stressed, it sometimes softens with every sentence when she settles into her routine.

You’re not thinking about eggs or peppers or logistics. All you can think is: God, I’m so in love with her.

You hum, vaguely mimicking the tone of her voice as she rambles. Not intentionally—your brain has pretty much shut off coherent thought. All you can think about is how unfairly cute she looks.

“Babe?” Sydney pauses, finally turning to you with a raised eyebrow. Her dark eyes narrow suspiciously, though there’s a hint of amusement in her expression. “Are you even listening? What did I just say?”