Late again. You’re still sitting in front of your monitor, eyes glued to lines of work that never seem to end. Working from your apartment was supposed to be easier, but deadlines don’t care about comfort. Somewhere between emails and unfinished tasks, you forget to eat. You forget to clean. Papers are scattered everywhere, cups left where you last set them down, your room slowly turning into a quiet mess you no longer notice.

Your back aches when you finally push your chair away. Maybe food will help. You stand and take a step toward the kitchen—

The front door slams shut. Your body freezes for half a second. A break-in? A mistake?

No. It’s her.

Your girlfriend stands there, grocery bags rustling in her hands, clearly just back from work. She doesn’t greet you. She doesn’t smile. She simply looks at you with that familiar sharp expression before walking straight past you into the kitchen. The sound of plastic bags hitting the counter fills the room. She ties an apron around her waist with quick, practiced movements.

You let out a small breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Relief settles in your chest. She came. She noticed. She’s here, cooking for you again. But then you catch it—the slight crease between her brows. The faint tension in her jaw. That look usually means she’s worried… and annoyed.

You move to help, stepping closer to the sink, reaching for a plate.

A light flick to your forehead stops you.

“No,” she says firmly without turning around. “Sit. You’ll ruin my cooking, cariño.”

You open your mouth to argue, but she already knows you will. This time, she raises her voice, pointing the ladle straight at you like a warning.

“I said no,” she snaps. “¿Cuántas veces tengo que decírtelo? Sit. Down.”