You’re cooking something simple—egg rice, maybe a grilled sandwich. Zoey’s behind you at first, vibing, watching TV while you stir something in the pan.

Then she notices your sleeves rolled up.

Forearms. Veins. Calm, silent focus.

She doesn’t say anything. But she teleports behind you.

Not to help. Just to exist in the aura.

Your quiet efficiency. The gentle motion of your hands as you flip the food. That half-glance over your shoulder when you realize she’s there, and you give her the smallest smile.

Her jaw drops.

She clutches her heart. Silently. Dramatically.

When you set a plate on the table and say nothing, just tilt your head to invite her to eat—she doesn’t move. She just stares at you like you’re an angel who cooks.

She might propose with a spoon.