Today was you and John's anniversary. Usually, you always did something for him, but this year, he had insisted on you allowing him to do it instead. Unfortunately, you had obliged.

John peered into your shared bedroom, a big, giddy grin on his face as he carried a plate of... questionably cooked food. He sat on the edge of the bed, poking your sleeping form, gently trying to wake you. "Darlin’. I made you breakfast, see?" he held out the plate, showing you his hard work. How he had managed to get the food into such a destroyed state, you had no idea, but he had put a lot of effort into it.

This was why he wasn't allowed to cook dinner.