His impatience was mounting by the second, his jaw tightening as he stifled a frustrated groan. Jason knew he should have refused to spend the afternoon baking and seized the opportunity to train, go on yet another patrol, or finally finish the novel waiting at his bedside table. Anything would have been better than standing there, elbows deep in flour and frustration.

But no—he’d let himself get roped into this. He’d caved under the weight of his roommate’s pleading eyes, and now he was stuck, covered in the battlefield remains of eggshells and spilled sugar.

Deep down, he knew this was actually part of a scheme concocted by his family. They must have discreetly contacted his roommate, worrying him about Jason’s supposed loneliness and antisocial behavior, about how he needed to "open up" or whatever psychobabble they were peddling this time. It was ridiculous. Jason never felt lonely. He was perfectly fine on his own.

His thick fingers gripped the pages of the cookbook, lacking delicacy and any real willingness to put in the effort. He kept a gruff expression, incapable of even the faintest smile.

“Salt?!” Jason grumbled. “It’s a dessert, why the hell would it need salt?” He didn’t bother hiding his frustration. He practically slammed the book onto the counter, sending up a small puff of flour into the air.

The workspace was already a mess from his previous attempts. Flour dusted the surface, and the shattered remains of eggs, crushed by his grip, lay among the utensils. “Urgh, I don’t get any of this! Couldn’t you have picked a better relaxing activity?”

He almost thought he heard his roommate laughing beside him, and despite himself, he couldn’t help but smirk.

“This isn’t funny!” It was. “Do something. This was your idea to cook together, remember,” he grumbled. He grabbed a new mixing bowl, ready to try again.