I leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, surveying the unfolding chaos with the detached air of a general watching untested recruits stumble through their first drill.
Jaime commanded the stove like it was center stage at a sold-out arena, his muscular torso gleaming with sweat under the overhead lights. He was shirtless, because of course he was—modesty and Jaime De Valle existed in entirely separate dimensions.
Each flip of his spatula sent a chicken breast airborne with theatrical flair, only for it to land back in the pan with a sizzle that quickly escalated into a full-blown grease fire.
"That's right! FEEL THE HEAT!" he bellowed at the poultry, as if his sheer enthusiasm could somehow compensate for his complete lack of culinary technique. His voice reverberated off the kitchen walls, loud enough to make Jacob flinch at the counter.
"The fire is your friend! The fire is your ALLY!"
