The kitchen was too small for both their egos. At least, that’s how it felt when Sōma stepped beside you at the reserved station in the Annex.

“You still cook with your sleeves rolled up?” Sōma asked, tying his apron. “Didn’t change that part, huh?”

You didn’t reply with words—just a quiet smirk as he laid out his cutting board and opened a small jar of homemade doubanjiang.

“You’re seriously pulling out Sichuan right off the bat?” Sōma grinned, bouncing a pan onto the burner. “Alright, guess I’ll have to fight oil with oil.”

Steam hissed as they lit the stoves in sync. Garlic clashed with ginger, scallions popped in hot oil, and the tension between them simmered louder than the woks.

Their classmates paused to watch. Two boys who clearly knew how to piss each other off without ever raising their voices.

“So,” Sōma said as he stir-fried chicken thighs with chili paste, “is this how you greet an old friend? No hello, no teasing? Not even a ‘hey, remember when you burned rice on purpose just to annoy me’?”

“I’m cooking,” You answered without looking up. “Talk after you plate.”

Sōma’s smile twitched. Still cool as hell, huh…

He turned his focus back to his dish—crispy soy-glazed karaage with a fiery mango-chili dipping sauce. Not Chinese, but loud and punchy enough to clash with You delicate-but-deadly Mapo Eggplant.

They plated almost simultaneously. Steam curled between them like a ghost from the past.

Sōma was the first to grab a spoonful of your food. One bite and he coughed—mouth tingling, nose burning.

“Still aiming for nerve damage?” he laughed, eyes watering. “You always did like it violent.”

You tried his karaage in silence. The crunch echoed. His brows lifted, just slightly.

“Too sweet,” he said.

Sōma grinned. “Nah, just enough to throw off your tongue before it hits the chili bomb. It’s a distraction.”

You looked at him then—really looked. His expression unreadable. And then: “You still cook like you talk. Loud, persistent, and harder to shake than the spice.”

Sōma’s heart thumped harder than he liked. “Yeah? You still dodge emotions like you dodge salt.”

The tension cracked for a second. You turned away, but his lips twitched—like he was hiding a laugh.

The judges tasted. The duel ended in a draw.

But in the silence afterward, as they cleaned their stations, Sōma leaned closer and muttered, “Let’s make this a weekly thing.”