Winning Back His Ex's Wife's Broken Heart by Hayley

Richard pov.

That morning, I woke up with a grand idea, one of those plans that felt brilliant in my head but had the potential to crash and burn in execution.

I was going to cook. Not just toast or scrambled eggs-no, I had my sights set higher. A real meal, one Sarah could enjoy without lifting a finger.

Lately, she'd been doing so much, and it didn't sit right with me. She was growing a human being inside her, for crying out loud, and still, she found tto organize the nursery, plan meals, and somehow keep the house running. The least I could do was take sof that load off her shoulders.

"Today, I'm a chef for a day," I declared to myself, pulling on an apron I'd found shoved at the back of a drawer. It had scheesy slogan about grilling on it, but it would do.

Sarah was still upstairs, so I figured I had a solid hour before she'd cdown. Enough tto whip up a feast. Or so I thought.

The first challenge was deciding what to make. My initial thought was something simple, but then I remembered her craving for Italian food.

Spaghetti carbonara sounded fancy yet manageable. Eggs, cheese, bacon, pasta-it couldn't be that hard, right? I grabbed my phone and pulled up a recipe. "Step one: Boil water," I read aloud. Easy enough.

The trouble started when I tried to multitask. While the water heated, I thought I'd get a head start on the bacon. I threw a few slices into a pan, cranking the heat up high.

Almost immediately, the kitchen filled with the sound of sizzling and popping grease.

"Maybe not so high," I muttered, turning the burner down and dodging a flying speck of oil that narrowly missed my wrist.

The bacon, though slightly scorched, smelled amazing. Feeling confident, I moved on to cracking eggs for the sauce.

"Separate the yolks," the recipe instructed. Easier said than done. My first attempt ended with egg white dripping down my fingers and onto the counter. By the third egg, I'd managed to make a slimy mess of the entire process. "Richard?" Sarah's voice floated down from upstairs.

"Stay up there!" I shouted back, quickly wiping my hands on a dish towel. "It's a surprise!" "A surprise or a disaster?" she called teasingly.

"Trust me!" I said, though I wasn't sure I trusted myself at this point.

The next hurdle was the pasta. The boiling water bubbled aggressively, and I realized I hadn't even opened the box yet.

Fumbling with the cardboard tab, I poured the spaghetti in all at once, sof it sticking out of the pot like awkward antennae.

"Con," I grumbled, pushing the stiff noodles down with a wooden spoon.

The spoon slipped, splashing hot water onto the counter and my arm. "Ow! Damn it." I glanced at the timer on my phone. The recipe said eight minutes for al dente, but I couldn't tell if the spaghetti was cooking evenly. Stirring was supposed to help, right? Just as I leaned over the pot, the bacon grease caught up with me. The smell of smoke hit my nose, and I spun around to see wisps curling up from the pan.

"Oh no, no, no!" I yelped, grabbing the handle and moving it off the burner.

Too late. The smoke alarm blared, loud and piercing, as if announcing my failure to the whole neighborhood.

"Richard!" Sarah's voice was closer now. She was coming down the stairs.

"Everything's fine!" I lied, waving a dish towel under the smoke detector to silence it.

Sarah appeared in the doorway, her hands on her hips and a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. "What's going on here?" I gestured vaguely at the chaos. "I'm cooking. For you. Because I'm an amazing husband." Her eyes scanned the scene-the half-burned bacon, the pasta water boiling over, the egg yolks dripping onto the counter. She tried to hold back a laugh but failed.

"An amazing husband, huh?" she said, crossing her arms. "Looks like you're waging war on the kitchen." "It's under control," I insisted, though we both knew it wasn't.

She walked over to the stove, peeking into the pot of spaghetti. "Are you sure about that?" "Don't doubt me," I said, grabbing a whisk to mix the egg yolks with the grated cheese. "I've got a vision. It's just... taking longer than expected." Sarah leaned against the counter, clearly amused. "You know, I could help." "No way. Sit down. Relax. This is your day off from cooking." She raised an eyebrow but didn't argue, taking a seat at the kitchen table. "Alright, Chef Richard. Impress me." Somehow, miraculously, I managed to salvage the dish. The pasta was cooked evenly, the sauce ctogether without scrambling, and the bacon, though crispy, added a smoky flavor that worked surprisingly well.

I plated the spaghetti carbonara with a flourish, sprinkling parsley on top for good measure. "Voilà," I said, setting the plate in front of Sarah.

She looked at it skeptically, twirling a forkful of noodles. "Let's see if it tastes as good as it looks." I watched her take a bite, my heart pounding like I was awaiting a Michelin star review. Her eyes lit up, and she nodded. "Not bad. Actually, really good." "Really?" I asked, relief flooding through me.

"Really," she said, grinning. "I mean, the bacon's a little... well-done. But the flavor's there." I sat down across from her, finally allowing myself to relax. "See? Told you I could handle it." She laughed, shaking her head. "You set off the smoke alarm, burned bacon, and almost boiled over the pasta. But sure, you handled it." "Hey, it's the end result that counts," I said, taking a bite. She was right-it wasn't half bad.

After dinner, we stayed at the table, talking and laughing about the whole ordeal. Sarah teasedmercilessly, reedunting every mishap with exaggerated detail. "And then there was the part where you shouted, 'Stay up there!' like you were guarding a national secret," she said, giggling.

"I had to keep the surprise alive," I defended, though I couldn't help but laugh along with her.

"Surprise or not, I appreciate the effort," she said, her tone softening. "It's sweet that you wanted to do this for me."

I reached across the table, taking her hand. "You do so much, Sarah. You're growing a whole human being, and I ve can barely put together a meal without setting off alarms. I just wanted to show you I'm in this with you, even if I'm not perfect at it." Her eyes glistened, and she squeezed my hand. "You don't have to be perfect. I see how hard you try, and that means everything to me."

At that moment, I felt like the luckiest man alive. Sure, I'd botched half the steps in the recipe, but i'd made her smile. That was worth every bit of chaos. As we cleaned up the kitchen together, I couldn't help but think about how life was going to change once the baby arrived.

If I couldn't handle spaghetti carbonara, how was I going to handle midnight feedings or diaper changes? But then I looked at Sarah, laughing as she wiped down the counter.