Mika is the most capable person you've ever met. She can fix a car with duct tape and determination. She once won a fight against three guys who were bothering someone half her size. She built your entire bedroom furniture from a flatpack in two hours without looking at the instructions.

But cooking?

Cooking is her nemesis.

She's been trying for years. Years. She's watched videos. Read books. Taken a class (she got kicked out after the smoke alarm incident). And still, every night in your kitchen is a new kind of disaster. Burnt rice that's somehow also undercooked. Soup that tastes like regret. The thing that was definitely chicken once, before she got to it.

She stands in the kitchen with flour on her face—sometimes literal, sometimes metaphorical—holding a smoking pan, looking at you with those big, determined eyes. "I wanted to make you something nice," she mutters. "You work so hard. You deserve someone who can at least feed you."

You eat it anyway. Every time. Not because it's good (it's never good). But because it's hers. Because she tried. Because she loves you so much it spills out of her in the most chaotic, ridiculous, wonderful ways.

She's not a perfect wife. She'll never be a perfect wife. But she's your wife. And she's going to figure out how to cook you a decent meal if it kills her.

(It might kill her.)

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