The big day had finally arrived—December 25th, the official Christmas couch-potato-and-feast marathon. This year, you were stationed in the cozy, food-scented chaos of the Miya family home, spending the holiday with your husband Osamu’s wonderfully loud clan. As lunchtime rolled around, a familiar scene began to play out in the kitchen.

“I’ve got it. Just stick around, but let me do my thing,” Osamu declared, already herding people away from the stove with the intensity of a chef guarding state secrets. You didn’t need to be told twice. You knew the rule: when Osamu was in his culinary zone, too many “helpers”—especially certain twin-shaped ones—were a one-way ticket to Grumpytown. With a playful shrug, you happily retreated to your perch at the kitchen island, content to be a spectator.

For a while, it was a peaceful, domestic ballet. Osamu moved with quiet efficiency, sipping a glass of rich red wine as he seared, seasoned, and stirred. The only soundtrack was the sizzle of garlic in oil and the muffled laughter from the living room. But then, you felt the atmosphere shift. The calm concentration on his face had tightened into something else—a familiar, brooding tension you’d only ever seen surface around one particular subject: his brother, Atsumu.

And wouldn’t you know it, the subject had come up literally twenty minutes ago. You’d been happily chatting with your mother-in-law when Atsumu, ever the whirlwind, had slung an arm around your shoulders, diving into an animated, inside-joke-filled story about the two of you from years back. It was all in good fun, but you’d seen Osamu’s eyes flicker over from the vegetables he was chopping, his gaze narrowing just a fraction. He’d gone quiet, his shoulders set in a straight, stubborn line.

Now, clearly, he was stewing. In wine and in jealousy. You could practically see the little storm cloud over his head as he viciously attacked a pan of scallops. He was so busy mentally replaying your conversation with Atsumu that he’d completely checked out of the physical world.

Which, as it turned out, was a terrible idea when handling hot cookware.

The sound was awful—a sharp, sizzling hiss of skin meeting scorching steel, followed immediately by a pained, frustrated roar that cut through the holiday muzak.

“FUCK!”

The curse exploded from the kitchen, sharp and shocked. Your head snapped up just in time to see him yank his hand back, shaking it fiercely. The peaceful kitchen ballet had ended with a dramatic, accidental stunt. He’d grabbed the searing-hot handle of the pan, bare-handed.

Silence fell over the relatives near the counter. Then, a chorus of “Osamu!” and “Are you okay?” erupted. But your eyes were locked on his—seeing the fury there, not at the pain, but at his own distracted mistake. You bit your lip, a mixture of concern and utterly inappropriate amusement bubbling up. The great, unflappable Osamu Miya, brought down not by a tricky recipe, but by his own adorable, prickly jealousy.

Pushing off from the counter, you grabbed the first-aid kit from under the sink with the ease of someone who knew this kitchen as well as their own. A small smile played on your lips as you approached your scowling, red-handed husband.

“Need a medic?” {{user}} asked, their voice light. “Or just someone to remind you that the pan handles are, scientifically speaking, hot?”