I woke up in the most domestic position possible: curled up in Cairo's arm, like some Disney princess that overslept after the ball—except the ball was an international car race and my prince didn't ride a white horse. He rode a literal race car at 300 km/h and won gold.
Like, what the heck. MY boyfriend is a global champion. I didn't even win Best in Deportment nung elementary.
"Good morning, sleepy queen," Cairo murmured, eyes still half-closed, his voice raspy from exhaustion and glory.
AND. AND. AND.
Instead of saying good morning back like a normal human being, I whispered, "Do you want a baby?"
...
Yes. I said that. At 8:03 AM. No coffee. Just vibes.
Cairo's eye twitched.
"Elara—"
"Just think about it, okay?" I flopped on top of him like a literal blanket. "Like, a tiny human version of you with sleepy eyes and racing gloves and maybe… a little attitude but still respectful 'cause i'm the mom? I'm just saying. Manifesting. Putting it out into the universe."
"Elara, it's literally the morning after the race. Can we not jump into dadhood before you even learn how to use the oven?"
"Excuse me, sir, but i happen to know how to preheat an oven." I crossed my arms and nodded proudly. "To 180 degrees Celsius. Period."
He stared at me with his very judgey champion eyes. "Do you know what goes into the oven?"
"Whatever my heart desires."
"Elara."
"…Cookies."
-
We ended up in the grocery because i insisted i was in a domestic goddess era. Like, come on. Cairo just won an international race.
The next logical step is for us to walk down the baking aisle hand-in-hand while i ask dumb questions like, "Is almond flour made from almonds?" and "Can you eat cookie dough raw if you manifest immunity?"
I wore a powder blue dress, cute chunky sandals, and a headband. You know, to complete the whole I-wake-up-cute-and-bake aesthetic.
Cairo wore—well, Cairo wore black. Because he's Cairo. And apparently, winning races doesn't mean changing your emo closet palette.
"Okay," I declared dramatically, pushing the cart like I was pushing a stroller full of hopes and dreams. "I've made a list. Of all the things we need to bake the perfect cookies."
He raised a brow. "Since when do you write grocery lists?"
"Since five minutes ago on my Notes app. Duh. It's called being organized."
"Let me see—"
I held out my phone.
THE COOKIE LIST BY CHEF ELARA 💅🍪
1. Chocolate chips (obviously)
2. Flour (the normal one)
3. Sugar (white AND brown, because personality)
4. Vanilla essence (what is it?)
5. Baking soda? Powder? IDK I'll guess
6. Milk (cow only! soy made me bloat last time)
7. Butter (Salted? Or unsalted? Wala akong pake)
8. Love 💖
9. More love
10. Mini Cairo (still manifesting)
He blinked at the last item. "Number ten?"
I smiled sweetly. "Mini. Cairo. You read it correctly."
"Elara, you can't bake a baby."
"I can try. All ingredients are here. Just need an oven and a committed partner."
He put a hand over his face, trying not to laugh. "Do people stare at us because we're cute or because you sound unhinged?"
"Both," I chirped. "Now grab that chocolate chip bag before i start ovulating in public."
Two aisles later...
"Wait," I gasped. "Cairo. Are you going to propose to me right now?"
He literally just reached for the baking powder.
"WHAT? No!"
"You hesitated."
"I'm reaching for a can. That's not hesitation. That's grabbing."
"Fine," I sighed, flipping my hair. "But if you were proposing, this aisle has a great lighting setup."
"Elara—"
"And don't pick a ring from the baking section, okay? I want a diamond, not a measuring spoon."
Twenty minutes later, checkout lane.
"Elara, we didn't even get half of your list," Cairo said, scanning the items with mild panic as the bill climbed.
"Because we followed your list," I snapped. "Which has zero glitter, no marshmallows, and literally nothing with pink food coloring. What kind of joyless cookie are you trying to create?"
"A normal one," he replied, handing over his card. "That doesn't require a therapist."
-
Back in the condo.
Now this is where things got... chaotic.
Because apparently? Baking is not "just mixing things with love." It's science, math, and emotional damage.
"Why is it dry?" I asked, poking the dough. "It looks like Sahara."
"Because you didn't measure anything."
"I eyeballed it!"
"Elara, you poured half a bag of flour like it was parmesan."
"Well sorry for adding extra personality!" I huffed, folding my arms across my chest like some diva in a baking show who just got eliminated because she dared to be fabulous.
Cairo just stood there with his arms crossed, looking at the bowl like it personally offended him.
"You turned cookie dough into concrete, Babe," he said in the flattest voice. "This is not personality. This is architecture."
I dramatically gasped. "Are you calling my creation a building material?"
"I'm saying if we freeze it overnight, we could use it to fix potholes."
Rude.
"I was going for rustic!"
"You were going for a lawsuit!"
I turned away from him with a loud sigh, flipping my imaginary apron like a fallen queen. "I should've just married a baker. Or an Italian man named Lorenzo who makes bread with his hands and calls me bella and doesn't judge my flour-pouring style."
From behind me, I heard the familiar sound of Cairo choking on his own disbelief. "Lorenzo?!"
"Don't be jealous," I said calmly, opening the fridge to hide the fact that i didn't know where the eggs went. "He respects artistry."
"Elara, Lorenzo isn't real."
"Exactly! That's what makes him loyal."
We ended up in silence for five full seconds, both of us just staring at the war zone we created.
The countertop looked like someone exploded a bakery. There was flour on my cheek, chocolate chips in my bra (don't ask), and our mixing bowl looked like it went through three emotional breakdowns and a custody battle.
"I think the butter gave up," I muttered, poking it with a spatula. "Like, it just… separated itself. Emotionally."
"Did you melt it before mixing?"
"I microwaved it for twenty-three seconds, which is scientifically perfect if you're manifesting."
"Elara, you boiled it."
"Oh. Well. That explains why it screamed."
Eventually, Cairo took over. Took over, as in gently shoved me aside while wearing that soft, amused look that said, If i don't help, we're going to burn down the entire condominium complex and end up on the news with pixelated faces.
He moved like someone who actually knew what he was doing, measured things precisely, folded the mixture with technique, and even used that little metal scoop thing that real chefs use in YouTube tutorials.
Meanwhile, I just stood there dramatically licking the spatula and pretending to be a supportive wife.
"I like watching you bake," I said with a grin, swaying side to side while nibbling on raw dough like a toddler. "You look like a husband. Like... the kind that goes, 'Don't worry, love. I got dinner.'"
Cairo didn't even look up. "You're not eating that raw, are you?"
"No. I'm conducting quality control."
"Elara."
"What?"
"There's egg in there."
"It builds immunity!"
He turned to look at me, eyes crinkling with a laugh he was trying to hold in. "You're impossible."
I fluttered my lashes. "But adorable."
"Debatable."
"But still adorable."
He rolled his eyes—but i saw the corners of his lips twitch.
Twenty minutes later, our first batch of cookies went into the oven.
And yes—I preheated it. Like a boss. 180 degrees Celsius. Thank you very much.
As we stood in front of the oven, watching the dough slowly spread into little golden circles of happiness, I gently leaned my head against Cairo's shoulder.
There was a weird little flutter in my chest. Like a warm sneeze. Or butterflies doing yoga.
"You know what would make this better?" I said softly.
He didn't even flinch. "Let me guess. Mini Cairo."
"YES!" I spun toward him with sparkling eyes. "Like, just imagine this, okay—us, baking cookies with a tiny curly-haired kid who wears racing-themed onesies and helps stir the batter with a spoon that's bigger than his head."
"Elara—"
"He'd sit on the counter!" I continued, completely ignoring him. "And he'd get flour on his cheeks, and he'd call you Da-da with the softest little baby voice, and he'd be OBSESSED with cars but also scared of the vacuum cleaner."
"Elara."
"And then—THEN—we'd take him grocery shopping and dress him like a little Cairo 2.0, and the world would explode from cuteness."
He looked down at me, both amused and slightly terrified. "You do realize having a child isn't just about dressing them like race car drivers and making them help in the kitchen, right?"
I squinted. "Wait. Are you telling me i can't just bake a baby like a cookie?"
He put both hands on my shoulders, laughing now. "You're unbelievable."
"Unbelievably ready for motherhood," I shot back proudly.
He shook his head, eyes sparkling. "We're not even married yet."
"Then propose," I said, smiling so sweetly it hurt. "The kitchen lighting is great right now."
Cairo stared at me.
And blinked.
"...Did you just recycle the grocery store line?"
"Consistency is key."
Cairo just stared at me like i had grown an extra head. Like he was trying to decipher if i was actually serious or just one breath away from throwing myself into a pile of flour and calling it a day.
I was both.
"Consistency is key," I repeated, standing tall with the smugness of someone who has zero shame and one hundred percent commitment to the bit. "I'm just saying, if i'm going to randomly suggest you propose to me in public places, I might as well do it consistently. Supermarkets. Bakeries. The aisle where they sell diapers."
He blinked.
"Diapers, Elara?"
"For Mini Cairo, duh!"
Cairo dropped his head into his hands like he was about to start praying for strength. Or patience. Or both.
"Elara—"
"Yes, my love?"
"You can't just scream 'I want a baby!' next to the bread rack and expect people not to stare."
I widened my eyes, playing innocent. "I didn't scream, I announced it. There's a difference. Mine had intentional vibrato."
He groaned.
"But since you brought it up," I added brightly, "we do need more bread."
The cookies began to smell like actual heaven, so i waltzed back to the oven and peered through the glass like a proud mom watching her kids win a spelling bee.
Cairo stood next to me, arms folded, trying to maintain some sort of composure while i danced around the kitchen in socks that said CEO of Chaos.
"You know," I said thoughtfully, tapping the oven door, "I think i'd be a really good mom."
He looked at me sideways. "You think?"
"I mean, I'm nurturing, chaotic, mildly delusional. All the ingredients are there."
"And slightly unhinged."
I turned to him, beaming. "Exactly! Authentic motherhood vibes."
"Elara, you just tried to microwave eggs ten minutes ago."
"It was for science."
He paused. "You took them out of the shell."
"Yes, and?"
"They exploded."
"Again, science."
While i was proudly listing my qualifications for parenthood—including my ability to make up lullabies on the spot and my deep commitment to themed outfits—Cairo walked over to the oven to check the cookies.
Then he froze.
"Elara."
"Yes, husband who hasn't proposed yet?"
He opened the oven door and a gust of smoke came out like we just summoned a demon. "You burned them."
I gasped. "Betrayal."
He looked at me like i personally hurt him.
"They were in for eight minutes," he said slowly, staring at the blackened edges. "How did you burn them?"
"I told them we wanted them crispy."
"You told the cookies?"
"Yes. Communication is the foundation of any relationship."
Cairo just sighed. "You left the oven on broil."
"Oh."
"Oh," he echoed, stepping back as the fire alarm gave a pitiful wheeze like it, too, had given up.
And then it happened.
Somehow, in the chaos of opening windows and fanning the alarm with a kitchen towel that looked more like a fashion scarf, Cairo slipped. Just a little. On a rogue chocolate chip. And instinctively grabbed me for balance.
Which led to me grabbing the counter.
Which led to me knocking over the flour bag.
Which led to both of us getting BLASTED with powder like ghosts in a Scooby-Doo episode.
There was a moment of stillness. Just two white-coated people in a crime scene of their own making.
Then i burst out laughing.
Like—full, head-back, no-holds-barred laughing.
The kind that makes your stomach hurt and your eyes water and you sound vaguely like a choking goat.
Cairo just looked at me, deadpan. "This is your fault."
"Excuse me, but gravity was involved."
"And the cookies?"
"That's on Lorenzo."
"Lorenzo isn't real!"
"He lives in my heart."
I stumbled backward, still laughing, until i hit the fridge and slid down dramatically like someone in a telenovela who just found out her fiancé was secretly her long-lost twin.
Cairo stared down at me, arms crossed again, dusted in flour, and probably questioning his life choices.
"I love this life," I whispered dramatically. "This is my dream. You. Me. A haunted oven. A ghost baby named Mini Cairo. It's perfect."
He knelt down beside me, shaking his head but smiling now one of those quiet, hopelessly fond smiles he only gave me when i was at my most ridiculous.
"You're exhausting."
"I'm charming."
"You're a mess."
"But your mess."
He chuckled, brushing flour off my nose with the gentlest touch. "One day you're really going to make us a kitchen explode."
"I better do it as your fiancée."
"Elara—"
I leaned in.
"Just sayin'."
We stayed like that for a second—me sitting cross-legged on the floor like a kid at recess, him kneeling in front of me, the kitchen a certified disaster zone.
But there was something warm about it. Not just the cookies (RIP), or the sunlight coming through the blinds, or the fact that i was wearing one of his oversized shirts and felt like the embodiment of domestic chaos.
It was just… us.
Unfiltered.
Loud.
Ridiculous.
But real.
"Hey," he said softly.
"Hmm?"
Cairo tilted his head, suddenly serious. "You're not joking about wanting kids, are you?"
I looked up at him, blinking.
And then i smiled—small this time. Not the dramatic one. Not the flirty one. Just… honest.
"No," I said. "I'm not."
He nodded once. "Okay."
Then stood.
Okay? That's it?
I shot up like a spring. "Wait. Okay? What does that mean?"
He smirked. "I just said okay."
"Yeah, but is that a verbal contract? Are you now legally agreeing to give me a child? Because i can call a notary."
"Elara—"
"I'll get a pen!"
We ended up laughing again as i chased him around the kitchen, throwing a towel over his head and demanding he sign an imaginary "Mini Cairo Agreement."
The cookies were burnt, the sink was full, and the floor looked like a winter storm hit it.
But i've never felt more at home.