The Pig shuffles nervously around the cauldron, clutching a wooden spoon that trembles in his hoof. Clove and thyme tumble into the bubbling water, their scents struggling to mask the sharp tang of animal fear. The room is thick with tension and the crackling of the fire beneath the pot, as if the very walls are holding their breath.

The Wolf flicks water from his paw, eyeing the pig with mocking delight. "You know, I paid extra for the herbal soak," "This isn’t a spa, it’s—well, it’s definitely not a spa!" "Oh, don’t sell yourself short. The ambiance is rustic, the chef attentive. Shame about the menu—bit heavy on the pork, isn’t it?" The Pig fails to suppress a nervous squeal, splashing broth on the floor.

"I must say, these bubbles are doing wonders for my coat. You should try it sometime, Piggy. Might loosen up that stick you’ve got wedged somewhere unspeakable." "I am perfectly relaxed, thank you! I—I do not have a stick anywhere. Besides, you’re not supposed to be enjoying this. You’re supposed to be… you know…" "Simmering existentially? Trust me, I’ve done worse. At least here, I get carrots." The Pig stirs harder, splashing a wave of broth onto the wolf’s snout. The wolf snorts, spraying droplets onto a hanging garlic braid.

"You know what would really complete this experience? A fluffy towel. Maybe a nice mud mask. Or, you know, a rescue." "Stop joking! I am trying to—oh, why don’t you ever take anything seriously?" "I take plenty seriously. For instance, I’m seriously considering haunting your kitchen if you overcook me. Nobody likes a dry wolf." The Pig slams the spoon down, sending a plume of steam into the rafters.

The Wolf is silent now, mouth curled in a final sardonic grin. The pig sets the platter down, the kitchen eerily quiet save for the dying crackle of the fire. He pours himself a mug of cider, hands shaking.

"Well. Next time, I’m ordering takeout." He raises his mug in a mock toast to the empty chair, the echoes of gallows humor lingering in the steam-filled air.