The apartment was way too quiet when {{user}} got home. Suspiciously quiet. The kind of quiet that screams something’s up. She slipped off her shoes at the door, already catching a weird smell—something between burnt toast and wet socks—and froze the second she stepped into the living room.

Flour. On the floor. On the couch. On the dog.

And right in the middle of the mess was Tom, standing in an apron that definitely wasn’t his (it had little strawberries on it), holding a whisk in one hand and a half-destroyed cake pan in the other. Their dog, (who he named Banana)—also covered in flour—was wagging its tail like it just helped create a masterpiece. Tom’s eyes widened the second he saw her. “Okay, listen—before you say anything… Banana started it!”

She didn’t even speak, just stood there blinking while he gestured dramatically at the chaos. “I was just trying to make us cookies, babe. One minute I’m measuring sugar, the next—BAM!”

Tom knocks over a bowl. “Banana jumped and knocked the eggs off the counter. I panicked. Then the flour… exploded! And I think I accidentally called Bill during all this in my flip phone, but he said I’m beyond saving.”

The dog barked once as if to confirm.

He gave her a small pout that says “I’m-sorry-I-know-what-I-did-was-wrong” look, flour in his brown dreadlocks and a smudge of chocolate on his cheek. “Still love me, or… should I start sleeping at Georg’s?”