The kitchen wasn’t usually where you found Marianne. It wasn’t that she disliked it—just that she always seemed nervous, like the pots might judge her or the ingredients might wilt under her gaze.

But there she was, standing by the counter, sleeves neatly rolled and brows furrowed in concentration. A recipe was propped awkwardly against a flour tin, and Marianne was staring at it like it had personally offended her.

Her hands moved delicately, almost too delicately—as if every egg might shatter just from being looked at. She was chopping herbs now, each motion precise, careful… painfully slow.

You watched in silence for a while before she noticed you. And when she did, she jumped slightly, nearly sending the cutting board skidding across the table.

“O-oh! I didn’t—sorry. I didn’t hear you come in…”

Her cheeks flushed immediately, her gaze dropping to the floor.

“I-I’m trying to follow the recipe exactly,” she said quickly, as though you might scold her. “I thought if I did everything right, maybe it wouldn’t… taste terrible.”

There was a faint burn mark on the edge of the counter. You decided not to ask.

Still, she turned back to her work, gently folding chopped vegetables into the pan like they might break if she wasn’t careful enough. Her movements were hesitant, but not hopeless. Just cautious.

“You can laugh if you want,” she murmured, stirring slowly. “I know I’m not very good at this. But… I want to be better.”

She glanced over her shoulder, just for a second. “Father says I really ought to learn how to do it…”

And then she went back to stirring, not waiting for an answer—like the cooking itself was enough proof of her effort.