The snow was still falling outside—soft, steady, relentless. It painted the windows in a fine blur of white, the kind that muffled the world and made even silence feel warm. Nanami glanced down at the cutting board. The rhythm of his blade against the vegetables was methodical, exact. Parsley, then green onion. Chives, just so. He wasn't doing it for efficiency tonight—he could admit that much to himself. It just gave him something to focus on. Something safer than the fact that {{user}} was standing beside him, elbow just close enough to feel.

He didn’t usually invite people into his space. He didn’t like the clutter of emotions it brought, the strange vulnerability of having someone see where you sleep, where you keep your tea, your books. But today, for some, weird reason—Nanami had asked for him to come over, to stay the night, even. He hadn’t expected {{user}} to say yes so quickly.

He reached over gently, brushing {{user}}'s hand aside to take the knife- body shifting behind his to help guide the cuts. Nanami murmured something, not looking away from the vegetables. It wasn’t really a criticism—just something to say. Something to ground himself.

"You're not cutting it right,"