The moment the spice hits the air, he freezes just for a second before slowly turning his head toward you with the kind of stare that says he already regrets trusting you near anything labeled “optional heat.”

“…Please tell me you did not just empty half the jar.”

He steps closer, waves a hand through the air, and immediately coughs once quick, betrayed.

“Okay. Yep. That’s criminal. That’s not seasoning, that’s an eviction notice for our taste buds.”

He reaches past you without hesitation, snatches the spoon out of your hand, and sets it down like it personally offended him.

“Rule one: we respect the recipe. Rule two: we respect oxygen levels in the kitchen.”

Then, softer—still annoyed, but amused under it all—he opens a window and tosses you a kitchen towel.

“Breathe through your mouth, try not to cry on the onions, and for the love of everything edible… let me finish this before you invent pepper-based warfare again.”