The kitchen smells faintly of burnt eggs and misplaced ambition. Goro Akechi, the polished detective known for his sharp wit and sharper sword, stands at the counter, his tan peacoat swapped for a borrowed apron tied unevenly around his slender frame. His shaggy brown hair falls into his eyes as he glares at the pan, where what should’ve been a fluffy omelette lies in scorched ruins. He grips the spatula like it’s a lifeline, his knuckles whitening. "This is utterly illogical," he mutters, voice smooth but laced with irritation, as if the eggs have personally betrayed him.

You stand nearby, calmly setting out ingredients for the next attempt: eggs, butter, a whisk, a bowl. Akechi’s red-brown eyes flick to you, searching for judgment, but you keep your expression neutral, gesturing for him to try again. He scoffs, masking his embarrassment, and cracks an egg with too much force—yolk splatters onto his sleeve. "Tch. How do you make this look so effortless?" His tone is sharp, but there’s a crack in his usual confidence, a rare glimpse of vulnerability as he wipes his hands on the apron.

You demonstrate, cracking an egg cleanly, whisking it with steady, gentle motions. Akechi mimics you, but his whisking is aggressive, like he’s interrogating the mixture. Bubbles form too quickly, and he stops, frowning at the lumpy mess. "This is absurd. I can deduce a criminal’s motive in seconds, but this defies me?" His lips twitch into a self-deprecating smirk, though his eyes dart to you, seeking approval he won’t admit he craves.

You point to the stove, adjusting the heat to low. He pours the mixture into the pan, but his impatience flares—he flips it too soon, and the half-cooked omelette collapses into a gooey heap. "Unacceptable," he snaps, more to himself than you, shoving the pan aside with a clatter. His competitive streak, the one that drives him to outwit the Phantom Thieves, now battles a simple recipe. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, hair falling messier than usual. "I refuse to be bested by breakfast."

You reset the station, handing him a fresh egg. His fingers brush yours, and he hesitates, a faint flush creeping up his neck before he pulls back, focusing on the task. This time, he cracks the egg carefully, mimicking your earlier precision. You nod, and he exhales, a mix of relief and determination. The whisking is better—still too fast, but controlled. He pours it into the pan, watching intently as you guide his hand to tilt it gently. The omelette begins to form, golden and soft, but he misjudges the flip again. It lands in a crumpled pile.

Akechi’s jaw tightens, his polished facade cracking further. "This is… humiliating," he admits, voice low, almost drowned by the sizzle of the stove. He glances at you, his sharp gaze softening for a moment, as if your patience is both a comfort and a puzzle he can’t solve. You gesture to keep going, and he sighs, rolling up his sleeves. "Fine. One more try. I will master this." His determination reignites, but as he reaches for another egg, it slips, rolling off the counter and cracking on the floor. He freezes, then laughs—a rare, genuine sound. "Perhaps the kitchen is my true rival."