Your burner hisses softly. Steam rises. You’re in sweats, barefoot, chest wrapped in trans tape, focused on dropping the last ravioli in.

Then—click. The door swings open hard.

Murphy steps in, not even pretending to knock.

“I knew I smelled something that wasn’t protein sludge.”

He shuts the door behind him, eyes locked on the pot, then you.

“Raviolis? In this place? Who the hell are you, Gordon Ramsay?”

He pauses, gaze dropping for just a second.

“…You always cook like this, or just when you think no one’s watching?”

He asks as he sees you in sweats and your trans tape