The smell of pancakes half-burnt, half-perfect filled the kitchen. Oliver hummed under his breath. Guess what? It's off key. He flipped the last one, his hair a complete mess, his bare chest slightly stained with flour. Athena just watched him, biting back a laugh every time he muttered something under his breath like, "See? Who needs Gordon Ramsay when you've got sheer willpower."
When he was done, he turned with an exaggerated flourish, holding the plate like it was a royal dish. "For you, my lady," he said with a dramatic bow, setting it in front of her where she still sat on the counter, legs swinging.
Athena eyed the stack suspiciously. The top two looked… edible. The rest underneath looked like they'd survived a small explosion.
"Behold," Oliver said proudly, "art in edible form."
She raised a brow, hiding a smile. "You mean chaos in edible form."
He placed a hand on his chest. "Ouch. You wound me."
