the ikea disaster.
emily has named it ‘the ikea disaster’ , the night she built aria’s wooden play kitchen. and the morning after the ikea disaster? is brutal.
emily wakes up with her head pounding, the dull, throbbing ache of too much red wine and too much frustration settling deep behind her eyes. she groans, pressing her palms into her face, replaying last night’s descent into madness. three and a half hours. one entire bottle of wine. at least fifty swear words—most of which she had to whisper-yell so as not to wake aria. and now? now she has a fully assembled wooden play kitchen in her living room and an existential hangover to match it. next time? she’s paying for the goddamn assembly fee.
it’s the first time emily has been hungover with a toddler in her care, and she’s beyond grateful that aria is naturally quiet in the mornings. she can already tell today is going to be one of those slower days, where neither of them fully shake the sluggishness until at least noon.
emily drags herself out of bed, pulling on a sweatshirt and sweatpants, running a hand through her already-messy hair, and makes her way to aria’s room - who is still curled up in her blankets, soft and small, her bunny tucked under her chin - unaware of the war emily has fought all night.
emily leans down, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.
“morning, bug.”
aria blinks up at her, still heavy with sleep, tiny and warm and slow-moving, her little body stretching just slightly. emily grins, because she is matching aria’s sluggishness perfectly, despite having been awake for over an hour already. she just prays aria doesn’t decide in ten minutes that today is the day she wants to be a normal, hootin ‘n hollerin, toddler.
“you wanna get up, baby?”
aria hums, shifting slightly, but makes no move to actually sit up. emily chuckles softly.
“yeah, i feel that.”
still, she scoops her up, lifting her out of the crib, letting aria tuck her tiny face into emily’s shoulder, her warm breath against emily’s collarbone. she smells like sleep, like the lavender spray emily uses on her sheets, like something soft and safe. emily presses another kiss into her curls, rubbing a hand down her back as she carries her toward the stairs.
“i’ve got something to show you, bug.”
aria hums, her tiny fingers clutching onto emily’s sweatshirt, half-awake but listening.
“it’s a surprise.”
aria blinks at that, pulling back slightly, her big brown eyes peering up at emily with curiosity.
emily makes it down the stairs, turns toward the living room, and—
“look, baby.”
aria follows her gaze, sees it. the little wooden kitchen, sitting right there in the spot emily set it up, just beside the opening to the real kitchen. aria’s entire body stills. her tiny mouth parts slightly, her wide eyes locked onto the new addition to the room.
she gasps. a real, genuine , tiny toddler gasp.
her little hands clutch at emily’s sweatshirt tighter, her whole body going tense for half a second before she suddenly squirms to be let down. emily sets her down, barely able to hold back her own laughter, because she knows exactly what’s happening inside aria’s little head right now.
“oh my god, emily, you did not.”
“you did not just get me the greatest thing to ever exist in the history of existence.”
“this is incredible. this is life-changing. i will never recover from this.”
“you. fucking. rock.”
…or, well.
that’s what emily imagines aria is thinking.
because aria takes off immediately, sprinting to the little kitchen like it’s the most important thing she’s ever seen in her entire life, her little feet slapping against the floor, her tiny hands reaching out to inspect everything at once. she touches every knob, every tiny wooden pot and pan, opens and closes the oven door, studies the sink like it’s a real one. emily just watches, her heart so full it physically aches, because this—this is why she put herself through that ikea nightmare.
but then aria suddenly stops, and turns back around. her big brown eyes lock onto emily, her expression so full of something deep, something real, something pure - and then she runs back to her, launching herself into emily’s legs, hugging her as tight as her tiny arms will allow.
her face presses into emily’s sweatpants, her fingers gripping onto her like she never wants to let go. and then so softly, so quiet despite her excitement, she murmurs:
”…fank ‘ou, emmy.”
emily swallows hard, blinks rapidly, rubs a hand over aria’s curls.
“you’re welcome, baby.”
aria pulls back just as quickly, giving emily one last, bright grin—before turning and running right back to the kitchen, her excitement fully taking over again. she grabs a tiny wooden spoon, starts stirring nothing in a little pot, humming softly to herself. aria plays by herself for a while, completely immersed in her new kitchen, her little hands gripping wooden spoons and tiny pots, her concentration so intense it makes emily smile. she moves between tasks, stirring an imaginary soup, adjusting the knobs on the stove with the utmost seriousness, and occasionally pausing to lift a plastic fruit or wooden vegetable to her nose, pretending to inspect it like she’s seen emily do in the real kitchen.
emily watches from the couch, head still pounding, but so content. even with the lingering fog of red wine regret, even with her low groans every time she moves too fast. aria is so.. into this. so free, so safe, so hers . but then—aria suddenly pauses, her spoon hovering over the tiny pot, her brows furrowing slightly as her eyes flick toward the hallway.
emily recognizes that look instantly. aria has heard something. something important, and then— as if he’s appearing for the first time today, just for her —sergio saunters into the living room.
aria gasps, delighted, dropping the spoon immediately.
“sergy!”
she practically vibrates with excitement, her little body bouncing once, her hands clapping together. sergio ignores her completely, as he does most things, and stretches out slowly, his back arching, his tail flicking lazily. he takes a leisurely look around the room, his gaze passing over emily, the play kitchen, the toy scattered floor—before finally settling on a sunbeam stretching across the carpet. without hesitation, he picks his spot, stepping into the golden warmth, circling twice, and then finally collapsing with dramatic flair, basking in the light like he owns it.
aria watches this like it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen. she always watches him, with such awe.
then, she gets an idea. emily can see it happen in real-time—the way aria’s little eyebrows lift, the way her tiny mouth parts slightly in realization, the way she suddenly gasps softly, her tiny hands grabbing the nearest bowl from her kitchen set.
without a word, she starts gathering. she picks out the best ingredients, the most important pieces of pretend food she can find—a wooden strawberry, a slice of plastic cheese, a felt piece of lettuce, a small fake egg. she places them all carefully in the tiny wooden bowl, double-checking her choices, adjusting them just so, before turning on her heel and toddling toward sergio.
emily leans forward slightly, watching.
sergio doesn’t move.
he remains sprawled out, perfectly still, only the very tip of his tail flicking as aria approaches. when she reaches him, she kneels carefully, the way only toddlers do—slow and unbalanced, like she might just sit instead of land properly. then, she sets the bowl down gently in front of him, placing it with so much care, so much intent, before sitting back and waiting.
she beams, so proud of her work, so pleased with herself. sergio lifts his head slightly, blinks at the offering, then flicks his gaze up to aria.
he sniffs it once.
then he looks at her again—and then at emily, like: “the fuck am i supposed to do with this?”
but instead of protesting, instead of getting up and leaving, instead of doing what most cats would do, he just lays his head back down beside the bowl. content. neutral. indifferent. but to aria? this is everything. this is confirmation. this is a glowing five-star review of her culinary skills. she nods once, very seriously, like she understands something deep about the situation now, before turning back to emily.
and god, her grin is wide, bright, so full of joy - her dimples deep in her cheeks.
“sergy like it, emmy.”
her voice is so certain, so pleased, so proud of herself, and emily—she just bites back a laugh, nodding along, matching her energy perfectly.
“I think he does, baby,” she murmurs, pressing a hand to her chest to stifle her amusement.
thank god that cat cannot talk.
aria goes back to her kitchen duties, humming softly to herself, fully immersed in whatever masterpiece meal she’s preparing. emily watches from the couch still, her head continuing to swirl and she’s starting to feel like whatever she drank, she will never, ever touch again.
but then aria suddenly pauses again, her little fingers stilling on the plastic knife she’s been using to “chop” a wooden carrot. her big brown eyes flick up, locking onto emily with a new sense of purpose.
oh no. emily recognizes that look. aria has made a decision, and that decision? emily is next.
“emmy,” aria announces, setting down the knife with the utmost seriousness.
emily blinks, pushing a hand through her already-messy hair.
“yeah, bug?”
aria stands up, her little hands on her hips, tilting her head slightly to the side, like she’s sizing her up.
“come ‘ere.”
not a question, a summons. emily sighs dramatically, rubs a hand down her face, but— she gets up. of course she does, because aria wants her to. aria immediately brightens, bouncing slightly on her feet as emily makes her way over.
“where do you want me, chef?” emily asks, voice teasing, ignoring the way her skull is actively trying to cave in on itself.
aria points to the carpet, right in front of the kitchen, her little brows furrowing like she’s already worried emily might try to sit somewhere else.
“dere.”
emily obeys, lowering herself onto the floor with a groan, her limbs protesting every movement.as soon as she’s seated, aria nods approvingly—then, without hesitation, hands her a wooden plate with a single plastic tomato slice on it.
“eat.”
emily blinks down at it, then looks back up at aria, who is watching her expectantly, fully invested in this moment. she sighs.
“okay, okay.”
she lifts the fake tomato slice to her mouth, pretends to take a big bite, then, gives aria the best dramatic reaction she can muster with a raging hangover.
“oh my god, bug.”
aria’s eyes widen slightly.
“this is… incredible.” emily gasps, clutching a hand to her chest. “i’ve never had a tomato this good in my life. You might be the best chef in the whole world.”
aria beams, her little chest puffing up with pride, but she’s already moving, already grabbing another plate, another random assortment of wooden and plastic foods.
“mo’,” she declares, handing her another plate.
emily chokes on a laugh, shaking her head.
“oh, we’re just getting started, huh?”
aria nods once, confirming that yes, emily is her forever client now. for the next ten minutes, aria gives her different roles every thirty seconds. one moment, she’s the taste tester, pretending to eat felt lettuce and a wooden drumstick. the next, she’s the sous chef, being handed a spoon and instructed to “mix, emmy!” while aria does something that emily assumes is plating.
after that? client again.
aria watches every reaction carefully, completely unaware that emily is barely holding onto her own existence right now.
“you’re really committed to this, huh, bug?” emily murmurs, rubbing her temple as aria hands her yet another plate, this time featuring a single wooden egg.
aria nods, pleased.
“dood, yeah?”
“oh, fantastic,” emily replies, playing along, forcing a grin through the pounding in her skull. “michelin star worthy.”
aria doesn’t know what that means, but she smiles like it’s the best compliment she’s ever received.
“mid..she’dliynn..dar worthy!”
but then— emily feels it. the unshakable presence beside her. she glances to her right, and there he is.
sergio, watching her.
his tail flicks lazily, his green eyes half-lidded, his expression one of pure amusement.
as if he’s saying—
“oh, it’s your turn now? enjoy the felt lettuce, prentiss. it’s exquisite.”
emily groans quietly, rubbing a hand down her face. this fucking cat.
aria, completely unbothered, already moves on, handing emily another spoon.
“mix mo’, emmy!”
and emily? she sighs, picks up the spoon, and keeps playing. because fuck a hangover, aria’s joy? aria’s bright little smile, the way she looks at emily like she hung the moon, the way she claps her hands with delight every time emily reacts the way she wants?
that’s worth every headache in the world.
and twenty minutes later, aria is still, somehow, fully in chef mode, her little mind whirling, her tiny hands working with so much determination.
emily is still seated on the floor, but aria has gracefully allowed her a break because emily told her ‘there are labor laws’ . so now, back leaning against the couch, emily watches her with an exhausted fondness, letting aria dictate whatever new dish she’s whipping up.
aria pauses, eyes flicking to the side, thinking. her tiny fingers tap against her chin, the way emily sometimes does when she’s considering something important. then, like a lightbulb flashing on in her little head, aria gasps softly, turns on her heel, and grabs a tiny wooden mug from her play kitchen. emily watches, curious, as aria moves with purpose, pouring imaginary liquid from her tiny pretend coffee pot, adjusting the mug like she’s seen emily do a hundred times before.
then, aria picks up the cup, carefully, deliberately, and walks over to emily. before she can even react, aria climbs into her lap, straddling her forward, settling herself firmly against emily’s stomach, her little body warm and soft and sure. emily blinks, her hands immediately coming up to steady her, one on her back, the other resting gently on her leg.
“what’s this, bug?” she murmurs, voice still thick with amusement.
aria, serious and focused, lifts the wooden mug and holds it to emily’s lips.
“s’ips, emmy,” she instructs, so sure of herself, so confident.
it takes emily half a second to realize what’s happening. aria is treating her, the way emily treats aria. offering her sips the way emily does with her juice - or helping her drink the way emily does when she wants to try something out of a regular sized cup. her tiny mimicry, so innocent, so genuine, so full of love, makes something tighten in emily’s chest. she swallows, pressing a kiss into aria’s curls, before leaning forward slightly, playing along.
“oh, thank you, baby.”
aria nods, pleased, still holding the cup steady.
emily pretends to take a sip, making a quiet “ahhh” sound after, just like aria does when she takes big sips of water. aria grins, her fingers curling a little tighter around the cup.
“dood coffee?” she asks, blinking up at her with so much hope.
emily’s heart physically aches .
“the best coffee I’ve ever had,” she whispers, meaning it in ways aria won’t understand for years .
aria beams, then carefully pulls the cup away, satisfied with her work. emily watches as she climbs off her lap, toddles back to her kitchen, and starts the process, all over again.