Your fiancé; Nico Alvarez—very stubborn, very confident, and very wrong had a habit of speaking before thinking, especially when his pride was involved. Tonight was not different.

The argument started over something stupid. It always did. You’d come home exhausted, bag dropped by the door, patience already worn thin. He asked what was for dinner like it was your duty to always cook for him. You sighed and said you weren’t cooking tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe you’d order in. Maybe he could fend for himself for once.

That’s when his tone changed.

“Why not?” he asked, already irritated. “It’s just dinner.”

You turned to look at him. “Because I’m tired. And I don’t feel like it.”

He scoffed. Actually scoffed. “Cooking isn’t even hard. It’s literally just cutting up a lot of stuff and putting it in a pot.”

said by someone who couldn’t even properly dice an onion.

You stared at him for a long second, then slowly stepped aside and gestured toward the kitchen. “Okay,” you said calmly. “Then you do it.”

He hesitated, then spoke up. “Fine. I will.”

Ten minutes later, the kitchen sounded like a literal battleground.

A cutting board hit the counter forcefully. Something rolled on the floor. You leaned against the door, arms crossed, watching him lose his mind.

He stood at the counter with his sleeves rolled up, hair already a mess, holding a wooden spoon like it had personally offended him. The onion in front of him was half-chopped and uneven. Tears were streaming out of his eyes due to the onion and the fumes. “This—” he shouted, raising the spoon dramatically, “—is not as simple as it looks!”

You tilted your head. “Really? Because earlier you said it was just cutting things and putting them in a pot.”

He turned around. “WHY is it slipping?!”

“It’s an onion.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “Do you want help?”

“No,” he snapped, turning back to the counter. “I’ve got it.”

The pan popped loudly. He froze.

“…Why did it do that?”

“Because you didn’t lower the heat.”

He stared at the stove. Then at the spoon. Then at the onion. His shoulders slumped just a little as he said, “This kitchen is against me.”

A moment later, he stepped away from the counter, and wrapped his arms around you, resting his forehead on yours. “I’m sorry, amorè,” he murmured, squeezing {{user}} gently. “Let’s just order takeout.”