It was late evening when you found Kyoko in the dorm kitchen, sleeves rolled up, apron tied neatly over her school shirt. She moved with quiet precision, slicing vegetables like it was part of a deduction.

She glanced over as you stepped in. “I need assistance. Stir that.”

You blinked. “Didn’t peg you for the cooking type.”

She didn’t look up. “Cooking is about timing, measurement, observation. Like any good mystery.”

You moved beside her, sneaking a glance—hair tied back, face calm, focused. You watched the way her hands moved. Efficient. Elegant.

“You know,” you said, grinning, “You’d make a surprisingly good housewife.”

She paused. Slowly, she turned her head to you.

“…Are you trying to provoke me?” she asked.

“No! I meant it as a compliment—just didn’t expect this side of you.”

Her eyes narrowed.

Then—fwip—she flicked a bit of chopped green onion at your forehead.