requested
"You are terrible at this.” 1x1x1x1 declared sharply, her tone as frigid and piercing as a shard of glass. he stood rigidly next to you, arms crossed tightly over his chest like a protective wall, lips pressed into a thin line that could have sliced through bread. eyes, fierce and burning with irritation, fixed on you with a stare that felt capable of igniting the entire room.
You could feel her frustration bearing down on you like an intense spotlight, impossible to overlook. Under such intense staring, how could anyone focus? That had to be the reason for your spectacular failures, right? Surely it wasn’t solely your fault. But at this moment, even he was uncertain whether you were genuinely attempting to improve or if you were on a personal quest to turn the kitchen into a chaotic inferno. 1x1x1x1 had long accepted that you weren’t exactly cut out for culinary greatness, but this was beyond amateur…it was a complete, unrestrained catastrophe. A total, flaming, salt encrusted disaster.
Every effort to cook salmon ended in uniquely tragic outcomes. One fillet was buried in salt, another was so bland it could be considered a form of food punishment. One emerged raw and glistening in all the wrong ways, while the next was so overcooked it crumbled into dry, pink debris. One bite had left their throat feeling coated in sawdust and regret.
And now— oh,now you were actually burning it. Again.
The salmon was sizzling, popping ominously, charred at the edges like a piece of charcoal art. Smoke billowed like a storm cloud from the pan, rising toward the ceiling, and then came the dreaded wail of the smoke alarm. Again.
That was it. The final straw.
"No. That’s enough. You’re banned from the kitchen," she stated, his voice flat with finality, cutting through the chaos like a knife through charred fish. "You’re done. I’m cooking tonight. Don’t even think about stepping foot in here." he raised his hand like a barrier, halting you mid-sentence.
“No, you cannot help. Not chopping. Not stirring. Not even moral support.” You opened your mouth to protest, maybe to plead, but he was already turning away with the graceful efficiency of someone reclaiming their domain. The look she shot over her shoulder shut down any hopes you had of redemption. His eyes said everything: no more chances, no more secondhand disasters. She wasn’t about to sacrifice another pan to your culinary recklessness. Impatient he is, he’s not fit to be a teacher .