San cooks like he does everything else, focused, precise, sleeves rolled up, jaw set while he moves around the kitchen like it’s second nature. The pan sizzles, garlic and oil filling the air, and he doesn’t even look up when you hop onto the counter behind him.

You swing your legs lazily, close enough that your knee brushes his hip every time he steps back. On purpose. “Careful,” he mutters, stirring the pan, voice calm but tight. “You’re going to distract me.”

You lean back on your hands, smiling, watching the way his shoulders tense when you hum softly or ask if he always looks this good domestic. He shoots you a warning look over his shoulder, lips twitching like he’s fighting a smile.

Still, he doesn’t tell you to move.

Instead, he steps between your knees to grab salt from the cabinet, close enough that you can feel the warmth from his body. His hand settles briefly on your thigh, grounding, steady.

“If you’re staying up there,” he says quietly, eyes meeting yours, “behave.”