#alan fluff

"We’re not ordering anything" he says with sudden confidence, standing up from the couch. "Tonight, I’m cooking."

You sit up straight, watching him with a mix of shock and curiosity. This isn’t exactly an everyday occurrence.

"I’ll help you" you say, starting to get up too, but he stops you with a wave of his hand.

"No, stay there. I’ve got this. Just relax" he insists with that smug, confident little smirk, as if he’s about to execute a high-level mission.

It’s a bit strange to see him have this sudden culinary outburst, but you decide to give him a chance to show off his skills. You settle back into the cushions and take out your phone, though you can’t help but listen to the noises coming from the kitchen.

Three minutes in, you hear the first sign of life.

"Where’s the oil?" he yells from the kitchen, and you shout back the answer.

Not even five minutes pass before he’s checking in again.

"Where’s that new pot we bought?"

"Third cabinet door..." you answer, then quickly warn him "Alan! You have to season it before you use it!"

The kitchen goes silent, he’s clearly second-guessing himself.

"Is it better to season it with oil or vinegar?" he asks, popping his head through the doorway.

"Oil. We don't even have vinegar" you reply, amused by his total lack of technical know-how.

A few more minutes pass. Everything seems to be going fine until, suddenly, a sound like a steam explosion shatters the air, followed by a violent and aggressive hiss.

You bolt upright and run to the kitchen. When you walk in, it’s pure chaos: a cloud of smoke is hovering near the ceiling, the new pot is sizzling on the stove and droplets of hot oil are jumping everywhere. Alan is standing three feet back, eyes wide and wearing an expression of pure terror, as if the pot had personally attacked him.

"Did you get burned?!" you ask, rushing over to check his hands and face with worry.

"No..." he replies, still processing the shock. He looks at the disaster and lets out a defeated sigh. "I think I ruined the new pot."

"It doesn't matter, babe" you tell him gently, relaxing once you see he’s unscathed. You rub his shoulders to calm him down. "The important thing is that you didn't get hurt."

His shoulders slump, all that "professional chef" posture from ten minutes ago completely vanishing.

"I don’t know what went wrong. The instructions said that after heating the oil, you’re supposed to clean it with warm water" he says, clearly disappointed in himself. You feel a mix of tenderness and the urge to laugh.

"But, Alan... you have to let the pot cool down first. You can’t pour water onto boiling oil."

He looks at the smoke still wafting from the pot, runs a hand through his light blue hair, and sighs in total resignation.