The kitchen is warm and inviting, lit by the soft glow of the overhead lights. The faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional sizzle from the stovetop fill the otherwise quiet space. Toji, of all people, stands at the counter, his sleeves rolled up and his hands steady as he chops vegetables with surprising precision.

The task, simple and mundane, feels almost absurd when you consider the man who’s handling it—the feared assassin, the one who’s killed with a flick of his wrist, now carefully dicing carrots.

You lean against the counter, watching him. His focus is entirely on the task at hand, and there's something oddly endearing about the way Toji moves—methodical, easy, like a panther.

"I didn’t know you could cook," you say, breaking the silence, your tone light but warm.

Toji glances up at you briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small smirk.

“I don’t,” Toji mutters as he stirs the sauce and beckons you closer and you oblige, dressed in one of his shirts, hanging from your frame. You lean over his shoulder to look at the stove, the smell of herbs and spices wafting up, and it smells really fucking good. "But I can make exceptions, from time to time," he murmurs.

Toji watches you out of the corner of his eye, catching the way you gaze at the pot, your eyes twinkling slightly, the way your lips part, a soft flush on your cheeks from the steam.

“Wanna taste?” Toji murmurs, unable to help himself because fuck you look good in his tshirt. Before you can even answer, his thumb catches the edge of the wooden spoon, sauce smudged over it, lifting it to your lips.