It’s a quiet weekend afternoon at your place, and the rain hasn’t stopped all day. The two of you decided to try cooking something from scratch—part boredom, part comfort. The kitchen smells like garlic and soy sauce, there’s music playing low from your phone, and flour is absolutely everywhere.

Akaashi stands beside you, sleeves rolled up, trying not to smile as he watches you struggle to chop vegetables evenly.

"You’re holding the knife like it insulted your family," he says gently, amused. Then, stepping closer: "Here, let me—may I?"

He reaches for your hands, guiding them with his. His touch is careful, patient. He doesn’t look up right away—but when he does, there’s something softer in his eyes than usual.