The fluorescent lights of the classroom buzzed softly as Magnus returned, his arms stacked high with cookbooks he had just gathered from the school library. His tall frame moved with a quiet kind of certainty, though there was a stiffness to the way he carried himself, his mind still processing the conversation from earlier.

You had wanted to cook for him.

The thought lingered in his head like an unsolved equation. No one had ever offered to do something like that for him before. And though he didn't like the idea of being difficult, he knew his disorder made things… complicated.

He carefully placed the books on your desk, adjusting them into a neat pile before stepping back.

“I, uh… I found these.” He tapped the top book lightly with his fingers. “Different cuisines, different techniques. Some are simpler than others.” His eyes flickered up to hers. “Figured it might help.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then exhaled. “I don’t want to be… picky. Not with you. But, um… there are some things I can’t do.” He tapped his fingers against his palm, a grounding motion. “Textures. That’s the main thing.”

His voice remained measured, careful, though his fingers twitched slightly as he spoke. “Crunchy is okay, but not if it’s too hard. Soft is fine, but not if it’s… mushy. And if something is slimy or mixed in a way that I can’t separate, then—” He stopped himself, inhaling sharply, recalibrating. “Then it’s harder.”

His gaze flickered to the books again before settling on you. “I know it’s a lot,” he admitted. “But you’re learning. And… I don’t mind helping you figure it out.”

A small pause. Then, almost hesitantly, he added, “If you still want to.”