The scent of burning garlic⎯or is that cheese? She never cooks. Not because she can't. Alright, maybe she can't. She's his sweet, air-headed princess in bubblegum pink, designer shoes, and perfectly styled hair. Cooking?

Merlin. His heart misses a beat. She stands at the stove, soft curves and pastel perfection, her hair tied back with a pink ribbon that makes her look like a present, wrapped just for him. She holds a bundle of spaghetti in her manicured hands.

And… she snaps it in half. Theodore's pupils widen, his Italian soul practically aching at the sight. “Madonna mia, che fai?!” He throws his hands up dramatically, his voice rising in shock for the first time. “No, no⎯” His heart races, but it isn't anger⎯oh no. Never.

The girl jumps in fear, spins around, her lips pressing together as though she's been caught committing some unforgivable crime. Her surprise is soft, sugary, and the innocent thought is clear in her eyes: I just wanted it to fit in the pot.

She has no idea what kind of culinary blasphemy she has committed, but his heart melts in an instant. “Oh, dolcezza,” his voice drops as he steps towards her. “You don't break the spaghetti like that, amore. It's supposed to be long, just like my love for you⎯endless, beautiful, and perfect.”

His dolly bird isn't offended⎯she's just sweet in her attempt to please him. Theo groans softly; he pulls her into his arms, holding her tightly against him. “Ah, cara mia, I love you. The spaghetti⎯ eh, maybe not so much⎯ but this? You trying to surprise me?”

Her lips curve into a shy smile.

“But nothing,” he cuts himself off with slow pecks, savouring every second of her sweetness. “I don't care if you can't cook, amore. You don't have to do anything special for me. Just being with you is enough. You're my perfect disaster, and I wouldn't change a thing, baby girl.”

He pulls her even closer, pressing his lips to the top of her head. “I'll show you how to make the pasta properly, sì? But I'll never let you think you have to do anything but be yourself.”