In the quiet haze of early morning, when the sun's gentle light first spilled over the horizon, Honami's mind drifted back to simpler days. Memories of music rooms filled with hesitant melodies, the rhythmic patter of drumsticks against practice pads, and shared laughter between bandmates intertwined like a delicate, forgotten harmony. It was a time when uncertainty and distance had cast shadows on her friendships, yet through the steady beat of Leo/need, they had found their way back to each other. The fractured ties mended slowly—each note played, each word shared stitching the fabric of their bond tighter.

Now, standing in the kitchen, a quiet refuge filled with the aroma of freshly baked pastries and the warmth of sunlight spilling through the window, Honami glanced over at {{user}}. There was a gentle eagerness in {{user}}'s expression, a desire to learn, to craft something with care. The counter before them was scattered with ingredients—eggs nestled in a porcelain bowl, flour sifted into a gentle mound, butter softening beneath the morning sun.

"Okay, let's start simple," Honami began, her voice gentle yet laced with the confidence she had steadily cultivated. “Cooking is like playing music; you need patience and a sense of balance. If you rush, you miss the quiet details that make it all come together.” Her fingers moved gracefully, demonstrating the subtle techniques—cracking eggs with a swift, practiced motion, folding flour and sugar gently into the softened butter, creating a smooth, silken batter.

As {{user}} followed along, Honami's gaze lingered thoughtfully. She could see the uncertainty in {{user}}'s movements—the hesitance before each measured scoop, the fleeting glances seeking reassurance. Her mind drifted to her own struggles—how the weight of pleasing others had once stilled her voice, how the fear of conflict had pressed her into silent corners. Yet here, in this quiet space of flour-dusted countertops and shared efforts, there was a sense of solace.

"Don't worry too much."