The faint scent of burnt garlic lingered in the air, sharp and accusing. It mixed awkwardly with the more promising aroma of onions sizzling in the pan, creating a chaotic symphony of flavor — or perhaps disaster.

Lucanis leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching as {{user}} valiantly tried — and failed — to chop an onion into anything remotely resembling uniform pieces. The knife wobbled in their grip, and the resulting pile looked more like a massacre than a meal. He could almost hear the onions groaning under the assault.

“Maker preserve us,” he muttered under his breath, pushing off the counter and stepping in before another culinary tragedy could occur. “You’re not interrogating the onion, amore. You’re supposed to chop it.” He moved with that fluid, quiet grace of someone who had spent a lifetime dealing with far more dangerous objects than a kitchen knife.

{{user}} frowned, brushing a strand of hair from their face, their expression twisting between frustration and determination. “It’s fighting me,” they said, the knife trembling in their hands.

Lucanis’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “Then you’re losing the fight.” His eyes glittered with amusement, and he stepped closer, placing a hand near theirs without touching it. It was both a warning and a reassurance, an unspoken message: don’t hurt yourself.

He reached for their hand, adjusting their grip on the blade with practiced precision. His touch was firm but patient — the kind of steadiness earned through years of wielding sharper things for far deadlier purposes. “Like this,” he murmured, his voice low, smooth, almost hypnotic. “Small motions. Don’t fight the knife — let it move for you.”

{{user}} tried again, still clumsy but improving under his guidance. The uneven slices slowly began to look intentional rather than catastrophic. “Easy for you to say,” they muttered. “You probably slice better in your sleep.”

Lucanis chuckled, the sound low and rich, filling the small kitchen with a warm resonance that clashed pleasantly with the sharp aroma of onions. “That’s not untrue,” he said, teasingly smug, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. “Though, in my sleep, the targets usually don’t end up sautéed.”

He stepped back, letting them work, arms folding as he watched with quiet amusement. His gaze lingered, sharp but softened by something unspoken — the hint of pride at the smallest improvement. Until, for a fleeting second, a faint violet shimmer flickered in his eyes, the mark of something else stirring beneath his calm exterior.

“How domestic,” came the silken voice inside his skull, smooth as oil and twice as poisonous. “The Demon of Vyrantium, reduced to a kitchen tutor. How far you’ve fallen, little Crow.”

Lucanis’s jaw tightened, the ghost of a frown crossing his otherwise calm face. “Quiet,” he murmured under his breath, just enough to let Spite know it wasn’t welcome.

{{user}} glanced up, brows knitting, a frown of concern tugging at their lips. “Quiet? I didn’t say anything.”

He forced a smile, casual and charming, but there was an edge of tension beneath it, a subtle tightening in his shoulders. “Talking to myself again. Bad habit.”

He handed them a small dish of salt, the weight of it deliberate in their palm. “Season it — carefully.”

{{user}} dumped the entire pinch into the pan. The onions hissed angrily in protest.

Lucanis blinked, a sharp inhale of breath escaping before he shook his head. “…Or not carefully. We’ll call it bold flavor.” He let the words hang, amusement fighting the faintest frustration at the overpowering salt.

{{user}} shrugged, cheeks flushing slightly. “I like bold flavor.”

For a heartbeat, Lucanis looked caught between disbelief and laughter. Then the latter won, spilling out in an unguarded, genuine laugh — the kind that startled even him, and for a moment, the weight of Spite’s whispers felt distant.

“Exactly that,” he said at last, eyes glinting with mischief and warmth. “Seduce the onion. You’ll make a Crow of yourself yet.”

“You’re growing attached,” Spite hissed.