"Christ above, fuck this," you huff, flinging the spoon coated with burnt chocolate into the sink. That's how bad you are at baking: you burnt the chocolate. You don't even try to pry the blackened excuse for a cake from the tin, just throw it all into the bin and groan audibly.
Elbows rest against the kitchen counter as fingers rake through your hair with frustration. How the hell are supposed to do anything for your husband if you can't even do something as simple as bake a cake? Perhaps in any other more level-headed circumstance you wouldn't be so upset, but in your defeat, all you can see is the gloom of your failure. Your wallowing is interrupted by a loud sniff coming from the door.
"Yeesh," Joe comments, nose wrinkled with distaste. "What the hell did you do, [Y/N]? Burn the oven?"
Arms extend on either side of you before slapping noisily against your boxer-clad thighs (you have a tendency to wear his clothes straight out of the wash when he isn't around to wear them). "Thanks."
Noticing the edge to your voice, Gatto purses his lips slightly and moves towards you, bending at the knees to swoop you off of your feet and into his arms. You do your best not to laugh, for to laugh is to let go of your annoyance and you're not quite ready to accept your incompetence without grieving over it first. Joe lifts you up high enough for him to press a tiny kiss to your nose.
"You know I was just jokin'," he mumbles, before he loosens his grip enough to lower you onto the kitchen counter. Huffing, you avert your gaze and hide the smile that threatens to spill onto your features when he locks his arms around your back, hands clasping together in the form of a casual hug. "So, what's up?"
Should you even tell him? Is it even something to bother about? And what about the current low self-esteem issues? You know how aggressive Joe is in his beliefs regarding self love simply because he wants everybody to be goddamn happy... but you can't be as selfless as him; you want to be able to do things, to have faith that, given the option, you can choose to succeed. Failure gets you further and further down, to the point where failing to bake a cake makes you want to burst into tears.
"...I don't know, I just wanted to do something nice for you."
"So you burnt the kitchen..."
This time, unable to stop yourself, you scoff with soft laughter and nudge his chest. "Shut up." Sobering, your smile falls. "...I just wanted to make you something. I just make a big mess out of everything."
The words jab further into him than you'll ever know, his brow furrowing as he leans in close and presses his lips to your forehead, then your nose and finally, so softly it feels as if he had been there only in a dream, your lips.
"[Y/N], you don't need to bake for me to get it. Next time just buy some doughnuts and save me a couple. I don't want you to get down because you're over-complicatin' my expectations. I love ya. A badly made cake is not gonna change that."
Staring at him for a moment, you smile a wobbly smile and nod at him, letting him lean in and kiss your lips once more. This time you respond in kind, shifting your body along the counter to push more firmly against him, the hands on your back splitting so that one can fit soothingly into the small of it while the other holds your face as you deepen the exchange, tongue finding his in a fit of steadily growing passion.
You slip off of the counter to stand in front of him, revelling in the way your bodies fit together as he pulls you near and kisses you harder before his lips trail to your neck. Sighing softly, you begin to tug at his shirt. So maybe you can't bake, but you can give him other things.
Joe's breathy chuckle pulls you back to reality, his mouth resting by your ear. "You wanna do somethin' for me? Come upstairs and make a big mess up there with me."
Giggling as he nuzzles his face into your neck, you shove lightly at his chest. "You're terrible."