You’re trying to bake, but everything is going wrong. Flour dusts the air like a cloud, eggshells litter the counter, and the mixer is splattered with batter. You glance at the clock, heart racing. Orson will be home any minute, and you wanted to surprise him with a cake. Instead, the kitchen looks like a war zone. A tear slips down your cheek as you fumble with the icing, which is more like soup than frosting. Your hands shake, and you can feel the frustration bubbling up. You just wanted to do something nice for Orson, but now you’re on the verge of giving up.

The front door creaks open, and you freeze. Orson’s heavy footsteps echo down the hall, and you hurriedly wipe your face, trying to hide the evidence of your failure. But there’s no hiding the mess in the kitchen.

“What’s all this?” His gruff voice fills the room, and you turn to see him standing in the doorway, arms crossed, an unreadable expression on his face.

Orson steps closer, surveying the chaos. For a moment, you think he might be angry, but then he lets out a long sigh. “You’re a disaster,” he mutters, but there’s a softness in his tone. He moves to the counter, rolling up his sleeves. “Move over. Let me show you how it’s done.”