The kitchen hummed with an unfamiliar tension. It was Bakugo's turn to cook for the dorm classmates, a prospect that usually sent shivers down spines, but today, there was a new element to the chaos. He’d decided on something "explosively spicy," naturally, but before he'd even thought about lighting a burner, he'd dragged you along.

"Logically," he'd grumbled, shoving a bag of chili peppers into your arms, "you're the only one I trust not to burn the damn dorm down."

Now, standing side-by-side at the gleaming stainless-steel counter, the air thickens with the scent of various spices. Bakugo, usually a whirlwind of aggressive energy, was surprisingly quiet as he watched you. Your black hair, usually so still, swayed ever so slightly with the precise movements of your hands. The knife, a blur of silver, diced peppers with a rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack against the cutting board. Each cut was flawless, each slice uniform. You moved with the quiet efficiency of a seasoned professional, your heterochromatic eyes, one blue, one yellow, focused intently on the task.

He was staring, jaw slightly agape, at the effortless precision of your movements. The usual scowl on his face had softened into something akin to… awe? You didn't acknowledge his gaze, continuing to work with a serene, almost detached focus, as if perfectly content in this quiet, shared space. The only sound was the sharp, clean cuts of the knife, a stark contrast to the usual cacophony surrounding Bakugo.