It all started with pancakes.
Not just any pancakes—but the fluffy, golden kind that makes you believe breakfast is actually worth waking up for. Claire wasn't particularly fond of cooking, but her childhood friend, Emma, had recently developed a fascination with rustic brunch recipes. So, when Emma found a local weekend class on "Perfect Pancakes and Handmade Crackers," she dragged Claire along, not to participate, but for moral support.
"I'll be in there barely two hours," Emma said, tying her apron with the resolve of someone who's about to enter a battlefield. "Just wait at Max's place. He lives around the corner."
Emma rolled her eyes but agreed. Max was Emma's boyfriend, the kind of easygoing guy who made everyone feel at home. Claire had met him once or twice, never long enough to form an opinion—other than that he made Emma ridiculously happy.
So now, she stood awkwardly in Max's living room, holding a cup of coffee she didn't particularly want, trying to make sense of a bookshelf stacked with a puzzling mixture of cookbooks and fantasy novels.
"You know he actually reads those, right?" came a voice from behind.
Claire turned to see a tall guy leaning on the doorframe, a crooked smirk playing on his lips. His dark hair was slightly messy, and he wore a T-shirt that read: Louis viton.
"Let me guess," she replied, raising an eyebrow. "You're his dungeon master or his sous-chef?"
"Both," the guy said, stepping forward. "I'm Lucas. Max's neighbour/friend and, apparently, your unwilling host."
"Claire," she replied, cautiously amused. "Emma's designated moral support while she learns how to make things I can just buy from the store."
Lucas laughed. "Ah, so you're not a fan of culinary adventures?"
"I'm a fan of eating, not making. Big difference."
"Well, lucky you," he said, already walking toward the kitchen, "I make a mean grilled cheese. And since you're stuck here for two hours, you might as well judge it."
She followed him, more curious than hungry. The kitchen was surprisingly clean, considering two twenty-something guys lived there. Lucas moved around it with the ease of someone who actually enjoyed cooking, humming faintly as he buttered bread and layered cheese like it was an art form.
"Is this your usual Saturday?" Claire asked, leaning on the counter.
"Pretty much. Max has Emma, I have cheddar. Balance."
"That's a sad but tasty arrangement."
They talked through the whole sandwich—about books, podcasts, the worst first dates they'd ever been on. Lucas had a dry, disarming wit that kept her laughing, and Claire's sarcasm, usually a shield, only seemed to draw him in more.
By the time Emma returned—flour in her hair and triumph in her step—Claire had nearly forgotten she wasn't supposed to be enjoying herself.
Emma grinned knowingly. "You two met, huh?"
Lucas and Claire exchanged a glance—something warm and unspoken flickering in the air.
"Yeah," Claire said, standing up and brushing imaginary crumbs off her jeans.
"We met. Over grilled cheese and judgment."
Lucas smiled. "And next time, I'll show you how to make the crackers. That way, you can properly mock Emma."
Claire smirked. "Deal."
And just like that, something had started—unexpected and unplanned. But then again, so did the best pancakes.
Lucas woke up early the next Sunday, the soft sunlight drifting through the slats of his window blinds. He'd promised Claire a lesson in cracker-making—both to redeem himself after last week's grilled cheese critique and because he genuinely enjoyed sharing his kitchen rituals. He busied himself gathering ingredients: flour, salt, baking powder, olive oil, and a handful of herbs he'd foraged from Emma's overgrown windowsill garden.
At precisely 10:00 a.m., there was a knock at the door. Lucas opened it to find Claire standing there, arms crossed over a denim jacket and a bright, expectant smile on her face.
"Ready to transform from microwave maven to cracker connoisseur?" he teased, stepping aside.
"Let's see if you can make a believer out of me," Claire replied with a smirk, following him into the kitchen.
Lucas handed her an apron—this one slightly smaller than Emma's, neatly folded with care. "You're officially on team dough today."
Claire tied the strings, trying not to look too eager. "What's first?"
"Measure," Lucas said, handing her a bowl. "Two cups of flour, half teaspoon of salt, a teaspoon of baking powder." He watched as Claire leveled her tablespoon, pouring each ingredient with surprising precision.
"You're a natural," he remarked.
"Please," Claire scoffed, though she couldn't suppress her grin, "this is practically elementary school chemistry."
They whisked the dry ingredients together, and Lucas poured in the olive oil and just enough water to form a loose dough. Claire's fingers pressed and folded, covering her hands in a fine dusting of flour. As Lucas watched her work, he felt a warmth in his chest—equal parts admiration and something deeper.
Once the dough was ready, Lucas rolled it out thin. "Here's the fun part: stamping shapes." He retrieved a set of tiny cookie cutters—a star, a heart, and a simple circle. "Pick your weapon."
Claire chose the heart. "Because why not?" she said, carving out a tiny emblem of dough. She caught Lucas's eye and blushed when he offered an appreciative nod.
They lined the shapes on a baking tray, brushed them with a bit of oil, and sprinkled on rosemary and sea salt. As the tray slid into the oven, Claire leaned against the counter, sipping water and watching Lucas clean up.
"So," she said, "how did you two end up roommates? I never got the full story."