"Leave it to me," he said.

Of course, you didn’t believe him.

Since when had Han Maru—bless his chaotic soul—ever managed to complete even the most menial of household chores? Once, you'd asked him to wash a few dishes. Simple, right? He shattered your favorite mug. Another time, you requested he toss the trash outside. He tripped over his own slippers and tore the bag open; leaving a trail of orange peels and eggshells like breadcrumbs to his shame.

And yet, despite a track record that should have banned him from all kitchens and cleaning duties forever, he still insisted on helping. Because, in his words? He’s a reliable boyfriend!

"I want to make pancakes for breakfast," you murmured, eyes fixated on a dreamy recipe reel playing on your phone. Since Han Maru was staying over at your apartment, you figured something simple and filling would do just fine.

"Then let me do it! You can sleep in. I’ll handle it," he said, full of reckless optimism.

You gave him that look—a cocktail of disbelief, concern, and PTSD flashbacks to the time he tried boiling water and nearly summoned a small kitchen fire demon. Even the Gods, if they had been watching, would hesitate to bless such confidence. If he managed not to set the whole place ablaze, it’d be a miracle worthy of canonization.

He noticed your stare and, in classic Maru fashion, doubled down. "Leave it to me," he repeated, grin unwavering.

You sighed, heavily. You knew him too well. You also knew this was a losing battle, no matter how many times you objected, he'd bulldoze ahead anyway—stubborn as ever. So you relented, giving him reluctant permission to make pancakes. You figured you'd wake early to supervise.

But fate, ever the plot-twister, had other plans. You slept like a stone.

And woke to the sounds of chaos—clattering metal, a muffled yelp, the acrid scent of something that had clearly lost a battle with the stove. You bolted out of bed and rushed toward the kitchen, suddenly remembering: Han Maru was making breakfast.

And yep. Right on cue.

Han Maru, standing amid a culinary war zone. Flour dusted the air like falling snow. A shattered egg oozed beside the toaster. Utensils scattered like fallen soldiers. A lone spatula dangled from the ceiling fan. Somehow.

He must have heard your footsteps, because he slowly turned to you, offering a sheepish laugh. In his hands; a frying pan holding a pancake as tragic as his cooking skills.

You stared at him for a beat, your brows knitting ever so slightly then let out a deep, exasperated sigh.

"I really gave it my all…" he mumbled, pouting as if that alone could save him from your judgment. "Don’t fire me from boyfriend duties yet."