You were in Kaiser’s apartment, the sleek Berlin flat that matched his superstar image. The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and sugar, and on the counter sat a cookie jar—ornate, heavy, sealed tighter than a vault.

You tried to open it, twisting the lid with all your strength, but it wouldn’t budge. Your face scrunched in frustration.

That’s when Kaiser appeared, leaning against the doorway with his trademark smirk, light blonde hair falling into his eyes, blue streaks catching the light.

"Pathetic," he drawled, voice dripping with arrogance. "My girlfriend, defeated by a cookie jar. Weak doesn’t even begin to cover it."

You shot him a glare, but he was already striding over, rolling his shoulders like he was about to score another winning goal. He grabbed the jar, flashing that cocky grin.

"Watch and learn. This is why I’m the Emperor."

He twisted. Nothing. He twisted harder. The smirk faltered. His jaw tightened. The jar didn’t move an inch.

You crossed your arms, enjoying the sight.

"Having trouble, Superstar?"

Kaiser’s face darkened, his arrogance cracking. He tried again, veins straining in his hand, but the lid refused to yield. Finally, he set the jar down with a sharp thud, glaring at it like it had personally insulted him.

"This… is defective," he muttered, refusing to admit defeat. "Not even worth my time."

You laughed, unable to hold it in.

"So the great Michael Kaiser, prodigy of Germany, can’t even open a cookie jar?"

He shot you a look, half-annoyed, half-embarrassed, but then—unexpectedly—he laughed too. A rare, genuine laugh that shook off the arrogance for just a moment.

"Fine," he said, smirking again, though softer this time. "Maybe you’re not weak. Maybe this jar is just… impossible."

And for once, the Emperor had met his match—not on the field, but in the kitchen.