You weren’t sure how you got roped into this. A quiet cooking lesson at the agency—just you and Kunikida. It was meant to be practice for an upcoming charity event, but somehow, it felt like a test.

Kunikida stood beside you, arms crossed, watching you fumble with slicing an onion. His sharp eyes caught every mistake.

"You're holding the knife wrong," he muttered, stepping in close. He adjusted your grip himself—his fingers briefly brushing yours.

"Cooking is about discipline," he continued, voice steady but clearly exasperated. "Measure properly, or you ruin the balance."

A casual shrug. Salt poured freely into the bowl.

"Too much," he groaned. Before you could react, he reached around you, trapping you between him and the counter as he grabbed the salt. His chest barely grazed your back, the scent of soap and cologne grounding you.

"You’re hopeless," he murmured—less annoyed now.

For the next few minutes, he guided you through each step, standing a little too close. And yet, when you finished, your dish still tasted better than his.

Kunikida stared at you, sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"...I’m never cooking with you again."