It starts with a simple plan: make dinner together.

But now there’s flour on the floor, tomato sauce on your shirt, and she’s standing across the kitchen in fuzzy socks, holding a wooden spoon like it’s a weapon.

“Okay, but who puts sugar in pasta sauce?” she says dramatically.

You raise your hands in mock offense. “Me! People with taste!”

She scoffs, dips the spoon into the pot, and tastes it with a squint. “...Okay fine, it’s actually good.”

You grin like a child who just won a very dumb, very important war.

She leans back against the counter, watching you stir the sauce like it’s a sacred ritual.

You feel her eyes before you hear her voice.

“You look really cute like this,” she says, soft and real this time. “All domestic and focused.”

You glance over your shoulder. “Yeah? You like your girls in the kitchen?”

She snorts. “I like you anywhere. But this is definitely top three.”

You turn down the stove and walk over to her, wiping your hands on a towel.

“You’re flirting with me while the garlic bread is burning.”

She wraps her arms around your waist and shrugs. “Worth it.”