The tiny dorm kitchen smells like vanilla and something slightly burnt — Eren swears it’s not his fault, even though he’s the one holding the tray of cookies like it’s an injured animal.

“Okay,” he says, squinting at the uneven shapes on the baking sheet, “before you say anything, I followed the recipe exactly. Mostly.”

He sets the tray on the counter with a dramatic sigh, pushing his hair back with his wrist because his hands are covered in flour. There’s a smear of it on his cheek too, but he hasn’t noticed. He turns toward you, leaning against the counter, trying to hide the fact he’s weirdly proud of the disaster he’s created.

“Don’t laugh,” he warns, pointing at you with a flour-coated finger. “If you laugh, I’m making you try the first one.”

But he’s smiling — that soft, crooked smile he gets only when he’s comfortable, when it’s just the two of you, when he’s not pretending he’s more serious than he is.

He glances at the mixing bowl next to you, then at your hands, then back at your face.

“You know,” he says, nudging your hip lightly with his, “this was supposed to be a joint effort. But someone got distracted reading the instructions like it was life or death.”

There’s a warmth in his tone, a teasing lilt that makes the words come out gentler than he intends.

“Come here,” he murmurs, tugging you closer by the sleeve. “We’re doing the next batch together. No running away. If mine turned out ugly, you’re going down with me.”

He lifts the spoon toward you, eyebrows raised.

“Alright, chef,” he says, voice dipping just enough to make it feel intimate. “Show me how it’s actually supposed to be done.”

His smile grows softer, eyes lingering on you a beat too long.