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Team: Montreal Canadiens
Requested: No
Edited: Yes
Word count: 707
Summary: He hates your cooking
~~~
"Artturi!" I sing out, turning the burner off while sliding the grilled cheese onto a plate. "Dinner's ready."
I hear him let out a sigh as the couch squeaks, and he walks into the kitchen and smiles at me.
I smile back, setting one white plate in front of him and another in front of my seat.
I watch as he picks up his grilled cheese sandwich, taking a bite out of it and noticeably winces.
He tries to cover it up by smiling at me again.
"It's good," he compliments, but I can hear the guilt and pain in his voice.
I give him a look. "I know you don't like it, Artturi. You don't have to lie to me."
Hurt starts to swell in my chest so I stand up and walk towards the bedroom, just needing to be by myself before I start to cry.
Recently I've started to really try to improve my cooking.
I've been going to classes and getting recipes from the other girls.
I just want to improve my cooking so Artturi doesn't have to fake his happiness.
After everything he does to help me and this household all I want to be able to do is cook him a damn good meal.
But I can't even do that, even with help.
"Babe," a voice says softly from the doorway.
I don't respond, staring at the scratches on the wall from when I fell off the bed after a tickle fight.
I feel his arm wrap around my shoulder hesitantly, tightening when I don't resist.
His other hand rests on my lower thigh and he leans forward to look at my eyes.
I avoid eye contact.
I'm kind of embarrassed about storming away, but I didn't want to show my frustration in front of him.
"What's wrong?" He questions gently, sensing my vulnerable state.
His hand from my thigh lifts onto my jawline, moving my head so my eyes meet his shining blue ones.
"It's silly," I chuckle shakily, lifting my hand to wipe the tears piling in my eyes.
"If it's making you cry it's not silly."
I don't respond, disconnecting our eyes again.
"Hey," he pats my thigh comfortingly. "Talk to me."
"It's just," I sigh, "I've been trying so hard to improve my cooking."
"I know you have."
I give him a questioning look.
I never told him because I wanted it to be a surprise.
One day I make grilled cheese that tastes like dog shit, and the next day I'm making soup that tastes like it was made for the queen.
"I saw the bill for the seven cookbooks you bought in one day. I come home to see multiple handwritten recipes laying on the counter. When I drive past that one restaurant that does cooking classes on Thursdays I see your car there."
His thumb brushes my cheek. "I know you're trying, baby, and I know you don't have to. I think it's the most wonderful and kindest thing for you to try to learn how to cook."
I give him an appreciative smile, pulling him into a tight embrace. "I love you."
"I love you too," he rubs my back in an assuring way. "How about this."
I pull away to give him a questioning look.
"We can make dinner together, that way if it's shit, we can both take the blame," he offers.
I grin at him, giggling at his idea. "I love that!"
"Great, me too." He stands up, leaning down to pick me up bridal style.
"Artturi!" I screech through my laughter. "What are you doing?"
"Taking you to the car, let's go grab McDonalds for dinner."
"That's not approved for your diet."
"Shut up."
~~~
"Alright, you ready?" My boyfriend asks me.
I nod eagerly, spoon in my hand, excited to try the chicken noodle soup we made together.
It took an hour, countless screw ups, jokes, and kisses but it's finally made and ready to be eaten.
I put a spoonful of soup in my mouth and immediately wrinkle my nose.
"That's disgusting," Artturi coughs.
"It tastes like sweat," I comment.
He laughs, setting his spoon back down. "Let's go get Pizza Hut."
