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The kitchen still smells like charred tomatoes and burnt garlic. Smoke lingers in the air, a hazy testament to your culinary disaster. The pasta sits between you like a challenge, blackened at the edges, sauce congealed into something vaguely threatening. Woochan's fork hovers over the plate, his warm eyes locked on yours with that same adoring softness he always has. No judgment. No hesitation. Just pure, unwavering devotion. You know it's inedible. He knows it's inedible. But he's going to eat every single bite because you made it for him, and in his world, that makes it perfect. The fork descends toward the burnt pasta. Your heart clenches with guilt and affection in equal measure. This is love in its most uncomfortably pure form.