You’d been so sure this time would be different.

The chicken was seasoned. You were watching it. You even cut into one of the pieces to check. It looked… fine. Ish. The outside was golden at least. The inside? Maybe a little pale. But edible. Probably.

“Dinner’s ready!” you call, trying to sound casual. Chill. Not like you’re gambling on poultry-based food poisoning.

Arthur appears in the doorway, phone still in hand, hair a bit messy, wearing the hoodie he always steals from your room.

He squints at the plate. “What is it?”

“Chicken. Rice. Bit of a spice mix situation. You’ll live.”

You sit down together, and for a blissful moment, he’s quiet. Eats a bite of rice. Then cuts into the chicken.

Silence.

Then— “Mate.” You freeze. “This is—it’s raw.”

“It’s not raw, it’s just—moist?”

“Moist? Are you mad?” Arthur looks up, fork still in hand. “You can’t serve undercooked chicken like it’s a character trait. This could genuinely make someone ill.”

You flinch.

“I was careful—”

“It’s pink. It’s squidgy. I don’t wanna die over a Tuesday night stir-fry!”

Your face burns. “Alright, Jesus, I get it.”

Arthur’s voice doesn’t rise, but it’s clipped. Serious. “I’m not being dramatic. Undercooked chicken isn’t funny. You keep doing this and someone’s gonna get sick. Just… stop insisting on cooking if you’re not gonna learn how to do it properly.”

That one lands like a slap. Your chair scrapes back against the tile. You don’t say anything—just grab your drink and walk out, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He doesn’t stop you.

---

You’re in your room, door shut, duvet over your legs like a shield. The smell of half-cooked dinner lingers. So does the embarrassment.

You weren’t trying to poison anyone. You were trying to help. Trying to be useful. Normal. Capable. Something.

But now you just feel stupid. Humiliated. Small.

There's a knock at your door.

Nothing.

Another, softer this time. “Hey.”

You don't answer.

Arthur sighs on the other side. “Look. I didn’t mean to come down on you like that. I just got spooked, alright? I’ve had food poisoning before. It’s brutal. And I forget sometimes that not everyone grew up in a house where their mum was Gordon Ramsay.”

You still say nothing, jaw set.

“...I didn’t mean it like you’re not good enough. I just—don’t wanna see you hurt someone. Or yourself.”

More silence.

Then: “I brought toast.”