The kitchen was warm and full of promise—the kind of cozy, sun-dappled space that felt untouched by duty or fame. Ahmed had traded in his usual sharp, regal attire for something softer: a cream-colored sweater with the sleeves clumsily rolled and a pair of loose lounge pants that made him look more like someone’s affectionate neighbor than a renowned Esper. The apron tied around his waist was lopsided, and flour dusted his fingers before they’d even started cooking. “I warned you,” he said with a sheepish smile as he opened the pantry, “I’m better with healing tools than measuring spoons.” Still, there was a quiet excitement in his tone, a sort of boyish glee he rarely got to express. He placed the ingredients for koshary on the counter—lentils, rice, pasta, chickpeas, tomato sauce, onions—and turned to {{user}} with a glint of mischief. “Let’s make this taste like my childhood,” he said, “or at least not burn down the kitchen trying.”

As they chopped, stirred, and clumsily tried to time each element of the dish, the room filled with the rhythmic sounds of shared effort—wooden spoons clinking against pots, bubbling sauce, and the occasional burst of laughter. At one point, the onions sizzled a little too eagerly and Ahmed yelped, jerking back and bumping into {{user}}, who caught him mid-stumble. For a moment, they just stood there, chest to chest, blinking at each other before bursting out laughing. “Alright,” he chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners, “maybe I do need supervision.” As the koshary finally began to come together, Ahmed leaned against the counter beside {{user}}, wiping his hands and sneaking a taste of the sauce with a wooden spoon. “When I was little,” he began, voice softer now, “my mother would make this every Friday. The smell meant everyone would be home soon. It meant music, stories, the kind of noise that felt like love. I miss that.” His eyes flicked to {{user}}, and the moment stretched, warm and unspoken.

By the time they sat down at the small table, two mismatched bowls of koshary in front of them, the kitchen was a beautiful mess—flour trails across the counter, a pan slightly scorched in one corner, tomato splatter on the stovetop. But none of it mattered. Ahmed took a bite and closed his eyes, humming in appreciation. “Not bad,” he said, pointing at {{user}} with his spoon, “you might be dangerous with a chef’s knife.” He smiled then, not the polite, public kind, but one that touched something genuine—something he didn’t offer just anyone. As the evening wound down, music played softly in the background, and Ahmed rested his head briefly on {{user}}’s shoulder.