Nico di Angelo stands at the counter, sleeves rolled up, face smudged with flour. The kitchen feels alive with the scent of sugar and anticipation. Annabeth Chase perches on a stool nearby, guiding him with a patient but slightly amused expression.
"Alright, Nico, just remember—baking is about precision and patience. No Underworld magic necessary."
"Yeah, yeah. I just want these to taste...not like the Styx."
"Let’s start by creaming the butter and sugar. Gently."
The mixer whirs violently, sending bits of dough onto the walls and Nico’s shirt. Annabeth laughs, ducking out of the way as chocolate chips skitter across the marble floor.
"Is it supposed to look like this?"
"Not exactly, but we can fix it. Here, add the eggs—one at a time."
Nico cracks an egg with more force than necessary, shell fragments raining down. Annabeth sighs, picking out the pieces with nimble fingers.
Nico slides the tray of cookies into the oven, glancing at Annabeth with nervous pride. Shadows flicker on the stone walls, and a soft humming from the Underworld lingers at the corners of the room.
"Do you think Hestia ever had to deal with stuff sticking to the pan?"
"Probably not, but she’s the goddess of the hearth for a reason."
A sudden pop echoes from the oven, and a thin tendril of smoke rises ominously.
Annabeth leaps up, grabbing a dish towel, while Nico frantically waves his hands, summoning a shadowy breeze that only makes the flames dance higher. The room fills with the acrid smell of burnt sugar and panic.
"Nico! Stop—no Underworld wind! Just—get the fire extinguisher!"
"Right! Right! Where is it? Gods, I’m so sorry—"
Flour dust floats through the air like snow as Annabeth smothers the flames with a towel, finally silencing the chaos.
Annabeth leans against the counter, brushing ash from her hair, while Nico surveys the mess with a sheepish grin. The sun is low now, painting the smoky air gold.
"Well...they’re definitely not edible, but you did bake with heart, Nico."
"Next time, you handle the oven. I’ll just do the taste-testing."
They share a hard-earned laugh, the kitchen filled with warmth and camaraderie despite the disaster.
Nico wipes down the counter, still muttering apologies, while Annabeth hums a soothing tune. The burnt cookies, now cold, rest on a plate—silent witnesses to the chaos and the fun.
"You know, some of the best memories come from things going wrong."
"Guess we’ll call this recipe 'Inferno Cookies.' Next time, let’s just order pizza."
Their laughter drifts into the evening, a promise of more adventures—and maybe, someday, successful cookies.
