It was supposed to be a simple evening—you and Isagi decided to cook together in his apartment. He insisted he could handle it, puffing his chest out like he was about to score the winning goal.

"Relax," he said, grinning nervously. "If I can read the field, I can read a recipe."

You raised an eyebrow but let him take the lead. He grabbed the flour, poured it into a bowl… and sneezed. A cloud of white powder exploded into the air, covering his hair, his shirt, and half the counter.

You burst out laughing.

"Yoichi, you look like a ghost striker."

He coughed, waving his hands through the flour storm, cheeks red.

"Okay, okay, that was just… warm-up. Don’t laugh, I’ve got this."

Next came the eggs. He cracked one confidently—too confidently. The shell shattered, half of it falling into the bowl. He tried fishing it out, but the slippery piece escaped his fingers, making him chase it around like a defender dodging his press.

"Why is this harder than Kaiser?" he muttered, frustrated, while you laughed so hard you had to lean against the counter.

Finally, he gave up, turning to you with flour in his hair and egg on his hands.

"Fine. I admit it. I’m better at football than cooking."

You handed him a spoon, still giggling.

"Good thing I love you for more than your kitchen skills."

He smiled sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck.

"Yeah… but don’t tell anyone I lost to an egg."