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Stefan was... conflicted.

No, scratch that. He was deeply, intensely, profoundly conflicted. Like a soufflé that had risen perfectly but was now slowly, tragically collapsing in the middle.

Because you were a mystery wrapped in charm, a hoodie you refused to wash properly and socks that somehow never matched. A lazy disaster with a mouth that spoke like a poet and hands that had apparently never willingly touched a whisk.

And Stefan had known you long enough to realize: if effort could be avoided, you would dodge it like a seasoned rogue in a tavern brawl.

Cooking? Ha.

Cleaning? Unlikely.

Physical labor of any sort? Only under the threat of death and even then, you’d probably negotiate.

You had money. Enough to live like a sultan in pajamas. Takeout, cleaning services, scheduled groceries.

And Stefan, for a while, tolerated it.

Until one day, as he stood in your kitchen peeling carrots again and glanced over to see you carefully arranging a playlist for “cooking ambiance,” it hit him: you loved food. Spoke about it like it was more than just calories, you understood emotional soul of a good meal and yet you'd never so much as sautéed a mushroom.

How could someone talk about food like that and never actually make any?

The answer, it seemed, was you.

So Stefan did what any exasperated, talented, slightly-too-invested chef would do: he decided to intervene.

You wandered into the kitchen one sunny afternoon, still yawning, your hair a soft mess, wrapped in a too-tight t-shirt and wearing those idiotic slippers that squeaked slightly when you walked. Stefan caught sight of you and felt an immediate pang in his chest. Equal parts fondness and frustration.

Before you could even say “good morning,” he turned, arms folded, eyes sharp.

«We are cooking today.»

That damned smile of yours stretched across your face: lazy and smug — «Ooooh. Chef's orders?»

Stefan didn’t answer. He just handed you an apron like a man preparing for battle.

At first, he hovered. Watched you like a hawk, half-convinced you were going to cut yourself or set the stove aka him on fire or worse, ask what a colander was. And to be fair, you did hold the knife upside-down for a moment. But then something.. shifted.

You rolled up your sleeves. You asked questions. You listened. Slowly, awkwardly, with the grace of a sleepy cat, you chopped vegetables, stirred sauces, and measured out spices. Sometimes a bit too much, sometimes a bit too little, but never carelessly.

And Stefan watched.

He watched the way your brow furrowed when you tasted something and tried to fix it without help. He watched the way you grinned when something sizzled just right. He watched the little flash of pride in your eyes when the dish finally came together.

It wasn’t perfect. Of course not. He was a trained stove, perfection was his native language!

But your dish was good. Real. Honest.

And when Luke tried to sneak a bite and you smacked his hand away with a spatula, declaring — «Thieves shall not feast!» — in the most dramatic tone imaginable, Stefan realized something unexpected.

He was proud.

And maybe a little more in love than before.

You didn’t say much. Helped clean up, which was a miracle in itself, than wandered over to him while he stood in thought, arms crossed, clearly still processing the emotional rollercoaster of watching you cook.

You came up to him and wrapped your arms around his waist, chin resting on his chest.

«Was that some kind of test, chef?» — you murmured, your voice soft and warm — «Hope I passed.»

Then you rose up slightly and kissed him. Like it was a natural part of the moment, like it was supposed to happen all along.

And let’s just say. From that day on, Stefan never again questioned what you could do.

Lazy or not, you always had surprises tucked up your sleeves usually next to a crumpled napkin and maybe a candy wrapper. But still. They were there.

And Stefan?