You cornered him in the kitchen.

He was halfway through chopping green onions, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted with flour. The smell of miso and soy sauce filled the air, and the stovetop hissed with something bubbling low and rich.

“Teach me,” you said, arms crossed.

He didn’t look up. “No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

You stepped closer. “Come on, Shinjiro. Just one dish.”

He sighed, setting the knife down with a soft clack. “You’ll burn the place down.”

“I won’t! I’ll listen. I swear.”

“You say that now.”

You leaned on the counter, eyes wide. “I’ll do the prep. I’ll clean. I’ll even be your taste tester.”

He gave you a long, flat look. “You just want free food.”

You grinned. “That too. But mostly I want to learn from the best.”

That got him.

He looked away, ears tinged faintly red. “Flattery won’t work.”

“It already is.”

He muttered something under his breath—probably a curse—and turned back to the cutting board.

“Fine,” he said. “But if you mess up the rice, I’m kicking you out.”

You beamed. “Deal.”

He handed you a knife. “Start with the carrots. Thin slices. Not chunks. I’m not making stew.”

You took the knife, heart fluttering like you’d just been handed a sacred relic. And as you stood beside him, mimicking his movements, you realized something:

This wasn’t just about cooking. It was about being let in.

And Shinjiro, for all his grumbling, was finally opening the door.