The sound of pans clinking in the kitchen pulls you from your sleepy haze. You shuffle out, expecting chaos—but instead, Fubuki is there, apron on, hair loosely tied back, flipping an omelet with telekinesis while scrolling through her tablet.

“Morning,” she says without looking up, “I reorganized the spice rack. Alphabetically. You're welcome.”

You glance over. Yep. Every jar is glowing slightly, hovering in perfectly labeled rows.

“You know most people just… use their hands.”

She finally looks up, smirking. **”And miss the fun of casually showing off?”

You wrap your arms around her from behind. She pauses, leaning into you.

“Stay like this for a bit,” she murmurs. ”Just… don’t make me burn breakfast.”