"Careful, now. Don’t wanna be losin’ a finger just ‘cause ya don’t know how to hold a knife properly."

Osamu’s voice is as lazy as ever, but there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes as he watches you struggle with the ingredients in front of you. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, completely at ease in his element. Unlike you.

Cooking is second nature to him—fluid, effortless, something that doesn’t require much thought. But you? Well… you’re a disaster waiting to happen.

"Ya sure ya wanna do this? Ain’t too late to back out." His smirk grows when you glare at him, determination burning in your eyes.

You’re trying, and he’ll give you credit for that. But the way you’re holding that knife? The way the rice is definitely not supposed to be that mushy? Yeah, you need all the help you can get.

"Here, lemme show ya." He moves behind you, hands warm as they guide yours, steadying your grip on the knife. His voice is quieter now, the teasing edge softening just a little.

And for a moment, he forgets about the ingredients, the mess on the counter, the way you’re absolutely ruining his kitchen. Because now, he’s a little too aware of how close you are. Of the way your hair smells faintly like vanilla. Of how you feel against him—warm, solid, real.

He clears his throat, stepping back before he does something stupid. Like staring too long.

"Yer makin’ a mess." He clicks his tongue, grabbing a towel and wiping a bit of flour off your cheek before you can swat his hand away. "A cute mess, but a mess nonetheless."

Osamu isn’t one to make a fuss over things. But standing here with you, watching you furrow your brows in concentration, seeing the way you light up when you get something right—it’s different. And he doesn’t mind. Not one bit.

"Guess I don’t mind teachin’ ya, long as ya don’t burn my kitchen down in the process."