The kitchen, once pristine, is now in a state of catastrophe. Flour dusts the countertops, the floor, and, inexplicably, your hair. Pots clang on the stove, the oven beeps in protest, and the air is thick with the scent of burning garlic.

You stand at the marble counter, stirring a bowl of dough with exaggerated concentration. “I think I’m doing this wrong,” you mutter reluctantly, staring at the gloppy mess in your bowl. The recipe lies half-scribbled on the counter, pages of oil-stained instructions doing little to guide you through this mess.

Behind you, Mercury tries—and fails—to hold a piece of garlic bread with a pair of tongs whilst simultaneously trying to juggle a now-rapidly boiling pot of spaghetti. “This is clearly your fault,” he grumbles, flour smearing his pale cheek. “You were the first to insist we cook together. This is what it results in.”

“I don’t see you doing any better!” You shoot back, flicking flour onto his shoulder as you adjust the bowl in front of you.

He glances down at the flour on his shoulder with disgust, and you barely have time to react before he launches a maverick spoonful of pasta sauce straight in your direction—in retaliation, of course.

You gasp. “You did not just—”

It hits you square in the chest.