Joichiro leaned forward, beaming with pride, as he placed yet another horrifying concoction in front of his long-suffering taste tester.

The poor soul—one of the few brave enough to try his earliest "experiments"—stared at the smoking dish with wary eyes. A quiet, precise student from the Chinese culinary program, known for his refined palate and iron stomach, he had somehow survived being Joichiro’s accidental guinea pig for months.

“You gotta try this one!” Joichiro grinned, eyes shining with that usual dangerous glint. “I swear, this time I added cinnamon after the wasabi gelée, not before.”

His victim sighed, muttered something under his breath in Mandarin, and picked up his chopsticks with the resigned elegance of a man going to war.

Joichiro watched with gleeful anticipation as the boy took a bite, paused, blinked—and swallowed.

“See! Not instant vomiting! That’s a win!”

The boy gave him a flat stare. Joichiro just laughed and leaned on the counter, propping up his head with both hands. “You know, you're kinda amazing. I've probably ruined your digestive system, but you still come back for more.”

The other boy rolled his eyes, reaching for the tea Joichiro always remembered to brew just for him. A peace offering, Joichiro called it. A habit, really.

“You know what this means, right?” Joichiro leaned closer, completely undeterred by the lack of enthusiasm.

A pause. The boy didn’t respond.

“It means you’re obviously meant to be my husband.” He winked. “Seriously, who else would survive taste-testing for me and still look this good while glaring at me?”

A long silence followed. The boy didn’t answer, but Joichiro grinned anyway.

“I’ll ask you every week until you say yes.”