Elma's eyes widened. "Mr. Fernandez, you've tried Tilda's cooking before?"

Lyndon's mind wandered back to that quiet afternoon at the office when Tilda had made him pasta herself.

He gave a small nod, the memory—along with the delicate flavor-still etched vividly in his mind.

That moment had revealed a playful spark in her, a warmth entirely absent now behind her guarded walls.

"Dad, Mom rarely ever cooks," Sheldon chimed in, eyes gleaming. "She only does it for people she really likes."

Lyndon tousled his son's hair. "Come on, let's go over your homework."

Sheldon obediently followed, glancing up with wide, curious eyes. "But Dad, it's only fair to give back. When are you going to cook for Mom to show her you love her?"

The idea gave Lyndon pause. "I'm afraid she'd interpret it as hostility rather than affection."

Sheldon frowned. "Why would she? Don't you like Mom?"

Lyndon stopped at the staircase, his hand resting on the banister. "Since when did food become the currency of love?" he asked quietly.

"It's always like that!" Sheldon protested passionately. "In dramas, girls only cook for the ones they like. Food can carry the flavor of love when you make it for someone special!"

Lyndon chuckled softly, amused by the child's logic.

"And when exactly did you become a love guru?" he teased, scooping Sheldon into his arms and giving his forehead a light flick. "Shouldn't you be focusing on your studies instead of absorbing so much TV?"

Sheldon rubbed his head with a pout. "I only saw it when Elma had the TV on! And don't change the subject—are you going to cook for Mom or not?"

As Lyndon carried him up the stairs, he replied with a smirk, "Are you sure your mom won't turn on you if I cook?"

Sheldon tilted his head, puzzled. "Why would Mom be mad at me?"

Lyndon said lightly, "If I make something and it tastes awful, you have to tell her it was your idea—then she'll take it out on you."

Sheldon stared at him, momentarily speechless.

Sheldon scrunched his face, glaring at his father's handsome face. "Dad, why are you so terrible at cooking? Is it really that complicated?"

Lyndon cast a sidelong glance at Sheldon. "You're calling me out? Can you whip up a meal?"

Sheldon froze, at a loss. "Dad, I'm just a kid—how can you expect me to cook?"

"Didn't you claim to be some kind of prodigy?" Lyndon teased with a smirk.

Sheldon hesitated, mumbling, "Well, yeah, but I've never even tried cooking."

Lyndon gave a knowing nod. "Exactly. Neither have I."