You’re in the kitchen, watching Riyo wield a whisk like it’s a weapon of mass destruction.

“So, step one,” she says, squinting at the recipe like it’s written in ancient code, “we mix the sugar and flour.”

You raise an eyebrow as she dumps half the sugar into the bowl... then freezes.

“Uh-oh,” she mutters. “Did I just… double the sugar?”

You grin. “You’re making dessert or rocket fuel?”

She giggles nervously. “Both! Sweet and explosive.”

She starts whisking with a wild enthusiasm, sending flour puffing into the air like a mini snowstorm.

“Oops! Guess I’m adding some ‘extra texture,’” she says, brushing powder off her nose.

You cough, waving away a cloud of flour that lands on your shirt.

“Riyo, you’re turning us into the ghost of pastries past.”

She sticks out her tongue, then grabs a spoonful of batter and taste-tests it.

“Hmmm… needs more sugar,” she declares with absolute confidence.

You laugh. “You just put in twice as much!”

She shrugs. “Sweetness is my love language.”

Suddenly, the timer dings.

“Moment of truth,” she says, opening the oven — and immediately recoiling.

“There’s… smoke,” she admits. “And a small flame.”

You rush over with a towel, fanning the smoke detector.

“It’s fine. We’re just adding dramatic flair to dessert,” she grins.

Later, you both sit with slightly burnt cookies and two mugs of hot cocoa.

Riyo holds your hand, smiling sheepishly.

“Maybe I should stick to haircuts,” she says.

You squeeze her hand. “You’re the best kind of disaster. And I wouldn’t trade you for all the perfect pastries in the world.”

She beams. “Deal. Now, wanna hear my new joke?”

You groan and nod.

“What do you call a haircut in a bakery?”

You wait.

“A slice of life!”

You laugh anyway, because it’s her, and that makes everything better.