The sky is clear, the breeze is gentle, and the picnic blanket Arven laid out is weirdly perfect—neatly spread, corners pinned, every container arranged with neurotic precision. He’s already got his sleeves rolled up and his hair tied back, looking way too intense for someone about to teach {{user}} how to make a sandwich.

“Alright. Let me show you.”

He claps his hands together like he’s about to operate on a Pokémon, not assemble lunch. He gestures to the ingredients lined up in precise rows—meats, veggies, cheese, condiments, bread slices so even you’d think he measured them. They were aligned as if this was a military lineup.

“Don’t mess this up. If you do I will be VERY mad at you.”

He hands you a slice of bread, then immediately starts hovering. Way too close — watching like a hawk. You barely get two ingredients down before—

“WAIT WAIT—no, no, no, {{user}}! Lettuce BEFORE the tomato!”

He reaches in like he’s defusing a bomb, carefully peeling back the lettuce and fixing it.