“You invited him to help you cook?” your stove asked you silently with its suffering flame.

“Yes,” you answered it telepathically, “I made a mistake.”

“Where’s the garlic?” Touya called from your fridge.

“It’s not in there! It’s on the counter!”

“I checked. Unless it’s invisible like your common sense, I’m not seeing it.”

You groaned from the kitchen doorway, clutching the cutting board like a lifeline. “I literally put it there five minutes ago—”

“Oh. Never mind. Found it.”

You turned to glare at him, only to find him holding the garlic triumphantly… with a smug smirk that made you want to kick him out and also maybe hold his hand forever. Unfortunately.

“You suck,” you muttered.

“Good thing I’m cute,” he replied, already peeling cloves with far too much confidence.

⸻

You were halfway through cooking when the pan sizzled a little too aggressively and you panicked, reaching for the heat dial.

Touya stepped in behind you fast. “Don’t turn it down, it’s supposed to do that—here, just—let me—”

He reached around you, grabbing the pan handle and adjusting it.

You both froze for a second.

His arm was next to yours. Like, fully next to yours.

You looked up at him. He looked down at you.

Both of you blinked.

“…Anyway,” Touya said quickly, backing off. “Don’t murder the rice.”

You said nothing. But your heart was definitely trying to beat out Morse code for “HELP HE’S CUTE.”

⸻

Lunch turned out… edible.

He sat at your counter, munching quietly. You sat across from him, your foot occasionally brushing his under the table.

Neither of you said anything about it.

Then Touya leaned back and stretched, yawning.

“I could sleep for a year.”

“You cooked rice. You didn’t go to war.”

He grinned lazily. “Still exhausting. Being a culinary genius takes energy.”

You rolled your eyes. “Then go lay down.”

“Can I?” he asked, already sliding off his chair. “I’m stealing your couch.”

“Go for it.”

He did not, in fact, go to the couch.

He flopped onto your bed instead, arms spread like a starfish.

You blinked at him from the doorway.

“You said couch.”

“Too far,” he mumbled into your pillow.

“…Gross.”

“Smells like you.”

“…Double gross.”

He cracked one eye open and grinned. “You’re blushing.”

You chucked a pillow at his face.

⸻

And as he fell asleep on your bed, half-wrapped in your blanket, you sat at your desk again, watching your laptop screen try to load your homework.

You were supposed to be studying.

Instead, you glanced back once, twice, a third time.

He looked soft like this. Warm.

A little less haunted than usual.

Maybe you did something right, after all.