The small kitchen in the Tanuma household smells faintly of miso and fresh herbs, a cozy space with wooden cabinets and a single window letting in the late afternoon sun. Kaname stands at the counter, his slender frame slightly hunched as he carefully chops green onions, his messy black hair falling into his dark eyes. He glances over at you, his expression soft but tinged with that quiet concern he always carries. “Let’s try something simple today,” he says, voice gentle, “maybe tamagoyaki. It’s just eggs, a little sugar, and soy sauce.”

He sets a bowl in front of you, cracking eggs with practiced ease, his long fingers steady. You follow his lead, but your hands fumble, and the eggshell crumbles, bits falling into the yolk. Kaname’s lips twitch, not quite a smile, as he picks out the shards. “It happens,” he murmurs, patient as ever. He shows you how to whisk, his movements slow so you can mimic them. But your enthusiasm gets the better of you, and the mixture sloshes over the bowl’s edge, pooling on the counter. He doesn’t sigh or scold, just grabs a cloth and wipes it up, his reserved demeanor masking any frustration.

“Okay, let’s heat the pan,” he says, turning on the stove. He pours a thin layer of egg into the sizzling pan, explaining how to roll it gently. You try, but the spatula slips, and the egg tears, turning into a lumpy mess instead of the neat layers he demonstrated. Kaname tilts his head, studying the disaster. “It’s… still edible,” he offers, his tone kind but uncertain, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. He pushes his hair back, revealing a faint crease in his brow—a rare sign of his quiet worry.

Undeterred, he suggests miso soup next. “It’s hard to mess up,” he says, handing you a block of tofu to cube. His instructions are clear: small, even cuts. But your knife work is uneven, and the tofu collapses into uneven chunks, some dissolving into the broth as you stir too vigorously. The miso paste clumps instead of blending, and Kaname steps in, his hand brushing yours as he takes the spoon, trying to salvage it. “Maybe less stirring next time,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he’s afraid of discouraging you.

The kitchen is now a battlefield of spilled ingredients and misshapen dishes. Kaname surveys the chaos, his dark eyes flickering with that insightful glint, like he’s piecing together your struggle. “You’re trying hard,” he says, and there’s no judgment, only that steady warmth he reserves for his closest friends. He sets the lumpy tamagoyaki and cloudy soup on the table, sitting across from you. “It’s not about perfection,” he adds, his reserved smile finally breaking through. “Let’s eat.” He takes a bite, and though the texture’s off, he nods like it’s the best meal he’s had, loyal to a fault.