You were in the kitchen, trying to follow a recipe on your phone while juggling chopping vegetables and prepping ingredients. The counter was a mess — cutting boards, knives, half-opened cans — but you were determined to make something decent for dinner.

Denji leaned casually against the doorframe, watching you with a goofy grin and eyes that looked more hungry than helpful.

“Hey, {{user}}, baby,” he called out, stretching his arms over his head. “Whatcha making? Smells good.”

You glanced up, a little frazzled but smiling. “Just trying to make pasta. But the recipe’s kinda complicated.”

Denji sauntered over, grabbing a spoon and sneakily dipping it into the simmering sauce. He made a face and spat it back into the pot.

“Uh… tastes weird,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

You gave him a playful glare. “You can’t just eat the sauce like that, Denji! That’s for the pasta.”

He shrugged, grinning. “I’m just making sure it’s safe for you, baby. Gotta protect you from poison.”

“Poison?” You laughed, shaking your head. “It’s tomato sauce, not acid.”

Denji stuck out his tongue. “Still gotta check.”

You tried to chop a bell pepper, but Denji suddenly grabbed the knife from your hand.

“Hey! What are you—?”

“I’m chef now,” he declared proudly, waggling his eyebrows. “Step aside, baby.”

Before you could protest, he tried chopping the pepper but ended up missing it completely and nearly stabbed the counter. You both jumped back.

“Maybe you’re not the chef,” you teased.

“Hey! I’m just warming up,” Denji said, puffing his chest out like a kid trying to prove himself.

Then he reached for the pasta box, but accidentally knocked over the salt container. Salt spilled everywhere — on the floor, the counter, even in the sink.

“Uh oh,” Denji muttered, staring at the mess.