Toge was perched on the edge of the kitchen counter like the world’s sulkiest housecat—arms crossed, cheeks puffed out, eyes narrowed at you as if you had personally betrayed him.

You pretended not to notice, humming lightly while you chopped vegetables. That only made him pout harder.

You flicked him a glance anyway. “Don’t give me that look. I’m not telling you what I’m making.”

He pointed at himself, then at the stove, then made a tiny, pathetic whimper. “Shake… shake?”

“Nope,” you laughed, stirring the pan. “Absolutely no clues.”

Toge slumped forward dramatically, head dropping onto the counter like his life had lost all meaning. When you tried to walk past him, he scooted right into your path, blocking you with all the determination of a sleepy, clingy puppy.

“Mmmfff.” “That’s not a word,” you teased. “You’re just whining.”

He tipped his head back to look up at you, eyes big and shimmering with theatrical hurt. “Salmon…” he pleaded, like that single word could unlock the secrets of dinner.

“Nice try,” you said. “Still not telling you.”

He let out a tiny, silent gasp of outrage and poked your cheek. When that didn’t win him any information, he went for the nuclear option—wrapping his arms lightly around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder while you plated the food.

You nudged him. “If you keep pouting, I’m making you wait longer.”

Instant change. His back straightened. Arms behind his back. Expression blank. Model soldier.

You snorted. “Okay, relax, I’m kidding.”

He sagged back into himself, eyes following your hands with laser focus as you finally set the dish on the table. He leaned in, sniffing dramatically like he was analyzing a mystery case.

“Alright,” you said, crossing your arms. “Guess.”

He pointed at the food. “…Tuna?”

His eyes narrowed. Yours narrowed back. A silent, petty standoff.