The cooking class is supposed to be normal.

Bright stainless steel counters. Neatly arranged ingredients. A massive screen at the front playing the instructor’s video—hands chopping onions, a calm voice explaining technique. Comforting. Predictable.

Until Love steps in beside you.

The moment she does, the screen flickers.

Just for a second. A glitch. No one else reacts.

You glance at Love. She’s smiling politely, tying her apron like nothing happened.

When the video resumes, it’s fine again—crystal clear. You tell yourself it was a coincidence.

Then she leans closer.

The video stutters. The instructor’s voice warps, stretching unnaturally as the image breaks into static. The knife on-screen repeats the same motion over and over, stuck in a loop.

Love tilts her head, watching the screen with interest.

“Huh,” she says softly. “That’s weird.” You step away.

The video corrects itself instantly.

Love looks at you then—not surprised.

Curious. Like she’s testing something. She moves closer again, shoulder brushing yours.

The screen spasms violently this time. Pixels bleed. The instructor’s face distorts, mouth opening too wide before the feed cuts out entirely.

Gasps ripple through the room.

The instructor rushes to fix it, laughing nervously. “Must be a technical issue.”

Love doesn’t laugh.

She lowers her voice, meant only for you.

“It always does that,” she whispers, calm and intimate, “when I stand next to the things that matter to me.”