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You should’ve known something was off the moment Artful stepped into your kitchen wearing an apron he clearly despised.
It was your apron.
It said “Kiss the Cook” in big red letters.
He had turned it around so the lettering faced his body, but the neckline still looped around him in a way that made him look like a very reluctant housewife.
“I don’t think this is necessary,” Artful muttered, tugging at the strap like it personally offended him.
“You said you were making food,” you reminded him gently. “Grease splatters.”
“I do not… splatter. I create.”
You raised one eyebrow. He lifted his chin defensively.
“Don’t make that face. I can do this. I simply haven’t— experimented— with cookware in some time.”
You decided not to unpack that sentence.
He marched toward the stove with all the confidence of someone who had no idea what eggs even were.
Artful cracked the first egg with too much flourish — like he was performing on stage instead of over a frying pan.
Shell fragments rained everywhere.
“…Was that intentional?” you asked carefully.
“Yes,” he said immediately.
You looked at the pan.
You looked at the countertop.
You looked at the egg dripping down the cabinet door.
He avoided your eyes.
“Artful.”
“IT WAS AN ARTISTIC CHOICE.”
“Right, okay.”
He added the second egg.
Or rather: he hurled it in.
A small fire ignited.
“Artful—!”
“It is SUPPOSED to look like that,” he said loudly, already sweating.
“It’s smoking—”
“It is EXPRESSING its spirit.”
“It’s on FIRE.”
“It’s passionate.”
You grabbed the pan lid and slapped it down before the “passion” spread to the curtains.
Artful stood there, stiff and mortified, a spatula dangling lamely from his fingers.
“…I meant for that to happen,” he tried.
You gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Sure you did.”
He blushed. Actually blushed. Like a cherry tomato under stress.
You took the pan off the heat and opened the lid.
A plume of smoke escaped, and inside was something that used to be an egg in the same way coal used to be a tree.
You held it up with the spatula. “This… was your childhood dish?”
Artful folded his arms, nose high.
“Not exactly. It’s supposed to be simple. Familiar. Comforting.”
His tone shifted — softer, defensive, vulnerable.
You paused.
Oh.
This wasn’t just about cooking.
This was about home.
About trying.
About wanting to share something with you and failing in the most Artful possible way.
You set the charred egg down.
“Hey,” you said gently, “how about we try again? Together.”
His gaze flicked to you — surprised, wary, hopeful.
“You… want to?”
“Of course.”
You stepped behind him, reaching around to guide his hands on the pan handle.
It wasn’t intentional intimacy — just natural, easy, familiar.
But Artful went absolutely still.
“You’re—” he swallowed, voice too tight — “quite close.”
“You don’t mind, do you?”
His face went pink. “…No.”
You cracked the next egg properly.
Artful watched, very serious, as if you were demonstrating a forbidden spell.
“So you do not… slam it in?”
“No.”
“Nor hurl it with velocity.”
“Definitely not.”
He nodded, committing this dangerous new science to memory.
You let him crack the next one.
He tapped it gently, shell split perfectly.
His face lit up.
You had never seen him so quietly proud.
It was… adorable.
He stirred carefully, every movement deliberate.
You watched the concentration on his face — the furrowed brows, the little crease in his cheek, the way his tongue poked out slightly when he focused too hard.
It was ridiculous.
And stupidly endearing.
“You’re doing great,” you said softly.
Artful froze — but only for a second.
Then he cleared his throat, trying to hide how much those words hit him.
“I am… adequate.”
“You’re good.”
“I am— tolerable.”
“You’re cute.”
He choked on air.
“I— I— EXCUSE ME?!”
You patted his back calmly. “Relax. Keep stirring.”
He did, flustered but obedient.
When you finally plated the eggs — soft, golden, actually edible — Artful stared at them with the same reverence he gave magical artifacts.
He took a bite.
He went still.
You worried for a moment.
Then:
“…It tastes like how I remember.”
Your heart squeezed.
Not because of the eggs — but because he looked so young in that moment.
So earnest.
Just like back then.
He glanced at you, expression unreadable.
“…Thank you,” he said quietly. “For helping me. For not laughing.”
“I’d never laugh at you.”
“You do. Quite often.”
“Okay, I laugh when you deserve it.”
He huffed, but there was no heat behind it.
A beat of silence passed.
Artful looked down at his plate again, trying — and failing — to hide a smile.
And for once, nothing burned.
Nothing smoked.
Nothing caught fire.
Except him.
Just a little.