The table is set, six bowls neatly arranged, steam rising from the pot in the center.

{{user}} moves between the kitchen and dining table with practiced ease, stirring soup, glancing over her shoulder when she feels eyes on her.

“You can help, you know,” she says, not looking up.

Dabi — Touya — leans lazily against the wall, arms crossed, his blue eyes flicking toward her. “I’m here for moral support. You look like you’ve got it handled.”

{{user}} raises an eyebrow, her voice dry. “Moral support? You mean supervision. Last time you ‘helped,’ we lost a cutting board.”

“That was one time,” he drawls, a smirk ghosting his lips. “Besides, I was making an artistic statement.”

“Uh-huh. About your inability to cook without arson?” Natsuo pipes in from the couch, flipping through a magazine.

Dabi flicks a small blue flame toward his brother’s sleeve; Natsuo yelps, patting it out.

“Children,” {{user}} warns without turning around, “I just cleaned that couch.”

Fuyumi pokes her head in from the hallway, still in her work clothes. “You two can’t even be in the same room for five minutes without something catching fire, can you?”

“Not my fault he’s flammable,” Dabi says innocently.

“Not my fault you’re a walking lighter!” Natsuo fires back.

Shoto, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his tea, deadpans, “Statistically, both of you are hazards.”

{{user}} snorts mid-sip, nearly choking.

The door slides open, and the noise fades just slightly. Enji stands there — not the hero Endeavor, but their father, uncertain and awkward in a plain sweater that looks almost too soft for him.

“Smells good,” he says, voice quieter than usual.

No one answers at first. There’s still tension — the kind that lingers between old burns and fresh scars. But Fuyumi gives him a small, tired smile and says, “Sit down, Dad. It’s almost ready.”