Chapter Text
The U.A. Heights Alliance dorm kitchen smelled like ambition.
It was a little after six in the evening, golden light slanting through the tall windows and catching on the stainless steel counters.
Most of Class 1-A (now 3-A, technically, though old habits died hard) were scattered across the common floors or out training but the kitchen was quiet, too quiet for what was about to happen.
Momo Yaoyorozu stood at the central island in a soft cream apron she had created herself, it was simple, elegant, with a little embroidered teacup on the pocket as her long black hair was tied back in a high ponytail different than her usual, a few rebellious strands sticking to her forehead from the heat of the stove, in front of her sat a tablet displaying a meticulously researched recipe for authentic Japanese curry! Not the instant kind, the real deal as she had wanted to do something nice, something normal, something that didn’t involve her credit card buying the entire meal.
She had already bought the vegetables, the meat, the spices of the best kind because of course she had but she was determined to cook them herself, to prove she could do something with her own two hands that was perfect on the first try just because she could will it into existence.
“Alright.” She murmured to herself, adjusting the flame under the heavy pot with scientific precision. “Onions first, low and slow as it build the flavor base. . ."
The door to the kitchen burst open with the force of a small pink hurricane.
“Yaomomo~!” Mina Ashido sang, practically skipping inside in her usual cropped shirt and shorts. “Whatcha doin’ in here all by your lonesome? Smells like. . . Potential disaster?” There was a certain warning in the air coming from the pot.
Kyoka Jirou followed at a more reasonable pace, one earphone jack already plugged into her phone, the other dangling like a lazy snake, she was in her usual black tank and ripped jeans, looking cool and vaguely suspicious of the entire situation.
“We heard you muttering about curry ratios from the hallway.” Kyoka said dryly, hopping up to sit on the counter a safe distance from the stove. “Figured you could use backup before you accidentally invent a new chemical weapon.” She loved her best friend but Momo was more of the I'll buy food than the I'll make food.
Momo’s cheeks flushed. “I—I was just trying to make dinner for everyone! Something comforting after the week we’ve had! . . . But I suppose a little help wouldn’t hurt, thank you, both of you.”
Mina was already tying on an apron she had yanked from the drawer, it was bright yellow with cartoon strawberries. “Hell yeah! Girl’s night in the kitchen! This is gonna be so fun!”
And it was fun!
. . . For about twelve minutes.
Mina blasted music from Kyoka’s phone (something upbeat with heavy bass that made the spice jars rattle) as she danced while chopping onions, which meant the pieces were wildly uneven and several had escaped across the counter like they were fleeing for their lives, Kyoka, trying to be helpful, had offered to handle the roux, she had read somewhere that you had to cook flour and butter until it was “the color of peanut butter”. . . She had taken that very literally and now the butter was smoking ominously while she poked at it with a wooden spoon like it was about to jump and attack her.
Momo, ever the perfectionist, had created a perfectly measured spice blend. . . And then second-guessed herself and added “just a little more” of everything. . . Twice.
The meat went in too early, the onions never properly caramelized, someone (Mina) had the brilliant idea to “add a little acid for brightness” and squeezed half a lemon directly into the pot, the roux seized, the curry paste Kyoka had confidently created from the spices looked less like a paste and more like damp cement.
Twenty-five minutes later, the three of them stood in a solemn semicircle around the pot like mourners at a funeral.
The curry was. . . Black.
Not dark brown.
Not even “well-developed fond” black.
Black.
Tar black.
With suspicious grayish patches that might have been mold or might have been the unholy union of lemon, over-toasted flour and whatever experimental spice ratio Momo had invented in a moment of hubris.
It bubbled sluggishly, releasing a smell that could only be described as “burnt regret and expired dreams.”
Momo’s lower lip trembled.
Big, sparkling anime tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over in dramatic rivers down her cheeks, she clasped her hands in front of her chest like she was praying for forgiveness from the culinary Gods.
“H-How. . . How am I this bad at cooking?!” She wailed, voice cracking instantly. “I’m supposed to be good at everything! Quirk use, academics, strategy, combat—Why is this one simple domestic task defeating me so thoroughly?!”
Kyoka stared into the pot like it was radioactive, one earphone jack twitched violently.
“What the fuck?” She said flatly. “How did it turn black in twenty-five minutes? Is tha. . . Is that mold? Did we just invent black mold curry? Is that even possible?” Apparently it was and it was right in front of her.
Mina had collapsed against the counter laughing so hard she was wheezing, tears streaming down her pink cheeks for entirely different reasons, hands slapped the countertop repeatedly.
“Oh my God—It’s so bad! Hahahaha! We murdered it! We actually killed the curry! Look at it! It’s judging us!”
Momo sniffled dramatically, creating a silk handkerchief out of her palm to wipe her tears. “I cannot believe this. . . Even with assistance. . ."
Mina wiped her own eyes with her talons, still giggling. “Hey, don’t beat yourself up, babe! Even the incredible Momo Yaoyorozu can’t be perfect at everything, you know? That’s what makes you relatable! And honestly? This is way more fun than if it had turned out perfect on the first try.”
Kyoka was still poking the black mass with a spoon as it made a disturbing schlorp sound. “Yeah, well, I’m still trying to figure out the chemistry of how it went from ‘mildly concerning’ to ‘sentient regret’ in under half an hour.”
Mina’s eyes suddenly lit up with that dangerous spark she got right before doing something mean and well-intentioned at the same time.
“I know what we need!” She declared, already pulling out her phone. “Experts! The real cooking pros! I’m calling in the real backups!”
She typed at lightning speed.
Mina: SOS KITCHEN DISASTER!
Mina: CURRY IS DEAD! WE KILL IT!
Mina: SEND HELP!
Mina: BRING SKILLS PEOPLE!
The replies came fast.
Sato: On my way! I love helping with food! ❤️
Bakugou: YOU EXTRAS CAN’T EVEN BOIL WATER WITHOUT FUCKING IT UP?! I’M COMING TO FIX YOUR SHIT!
Kaminari: lol be there in 5. don’t burn the dorm down before i get there pinks.
Mina grinned wickedly at the screen. “Perfect, the cavalry’s coming.”
Exactly four minutes later, the kitchen fill with new presences arriving to save the day from a potential chemical hazard.
Rikido Sato entered first, his large frame filling the doorway. He had a gentle smile on his face and was carrying a small container of what smelled like fresh-baked something sweet. “Hello, everyone! I heard there was a cooking emergency and I’d love to help however I can!” He took one look at the black mass in the pot and his smile faltered for only a second before he rallied. “Ah, well, we can. . . Work with this. Maybe as a base for something new?”
Before anyone could answer, the second presence stepped in so harsh the floor almost trembled.
Katsuki Bakugou stormed in like he was about to fight the stove itself with both hands already sparking.
“What the hell is that smell?! It’s like someone set a tire on fire and then pissed on it!” His crimson eyes locked on the pot, then on the three girls. “Your girls suck at cooking! Move your asses, I’ll fix this disaster before you poison the whole damn class!”
He was already rolling up his sleeves, marching toward the stove like a man on a mission.
And right behind him, strolling in with his usual lazy grin and hands on the back of his head was Denki Kaminari.
His golden eyes flicked over the scene: The black curry, Mina still half-laughing, Momo’s dramatic tears, Kyoka’s deadpan horror and landed on the last one with a spark of amusement.
Kyoka’s earphone jacks twitched, crossed her arms trying, and failing, to look unimpressed.
“Well, well. . .” She drawled. “If it isn’t the idiot of the squad. What are you doing here, Kaminari? Just here to steal whatever scraps of edible food might still exist in this war zone?”
Denki’s grin widened into something sharper, cockier even as he leaned one hip against the counter, electric hair waving a bit.
“Actually.” He said, voice smooth with eagerness. “I’m really good at cooking, especially traditional Japanese stuff. . . Home-style.”
Kyoka raised one eyebrow so high it nearly disappeared into her hair. “You? Cook? What can a dumb-dumb like you possibly make without burning the entire kitchen?”
Before Denki could answer, Mina launched herself between them like an overexcited pink missile. She grabbed her own cheeks with both hands, eyes sparkling with the memory.
“No, no, no, Kyoka, he’s for real! I still remember that one time Denki made homemade curry for me, Kirishima, Sero and Bakugou! It was soooo good! Like, actual restaurant quality but with that warm, cozy, ‘Someone actually cares about feeding you’ feeling! The meat was so tender it fell apart, the spices were perfectly balanced and the roux? Chef’s kiss! I still think about it sometimes when I’m sad!”
She sighed dreamily, still squeezing her cheeks.
Denki laughed, bright and easy as always, and before anyone could stop him he slung a casual arm around Bakugou’s shoulders, pulling the explosive blond in like they were old drinking buddies.
“See? Mina remembers the truth.” Denki teased, giving Bakugou a little shake. “And you liked it too, didn’t you, Bakubro? Back then you were muttering ‘not half bad’ under your breath while you went back for seconds, even though you’ve been denying it ever since.”
Bakugou’s face went nuclear red, small explosions popped off his palms as he failed to shove Denki off without actually hurting him.
“HAH?! GET YOUR STUPID SPARKY ARM OFF ME, YOU DAMN PIKACHU! I NEVER SAID THAT! IT WAS EDIBLE! BARELY! AND IF YOU TELL ANYONE I ATE SECONDS I’LL BLAST YOUR ASS INTO ORBIT!”
Denki just laughed harder, completely unfazed, still hanging off the taller boy like a golden retriever that had chosen violence via affection.
Kyoka watched the whole exchange with her usual cool expression. . . But inside something traitorous fluttered.
He actually cooked for them? Made something that good? And Bakugou approved?
She hated how warm that made her feel.
Hated the tiny spark of curiosity.
Hated that Denki looked stupidly handsome when he was being all competent and teasing instead of short-circuiting his brain.
She covered it with a scoff, one jack pointing accusingly at him.
". . . Fine.” She said. “If you’re such a master chef, then prove it. Make something actually eatable, I challenge you, Kaminari.”
The kitchen went quiet for half a second.
Denki’s golden eyes lit up, literally, a tiny crackle of electricity dancing through his hair like excitement made visible as he finally let go of Bakugou, who immediately wiped his shoulder like he’d been contaminated with stupidity, and stepped closer to Kyoka, close enough that she had to tilt her head back a little to keep eye contact, close enough that she could smell the faint citrus scent that always clung to him from his bodywash.
His smirk was all trouble and promise.
“Challenge accepted, Jirou.”
He reached past her to grab the wooden spoon from the counter.
“I’ll teach you how to make real food that doesn’t turn into a science experiment gone wrong, so no more black mold curry disasters, by the time I’m done.” His voice dropped, playful and warm. “You’ll be begging for seconds. . . Maybe even thirds.”
Kyoka’s ears went pink.
He noticed by that smirk he gave her.
She hated that he noticed.
Mina squealed behind them.
Momo was already creating a fresh notepad to take notes.
Sato was rolling up his sleeves with a happy hum.
Bakugou was grumbling but not leaving.
And Denki Kaminari—resident wannabe flirt, dumbest member of the Baku-squad, current unexpected cooking savant—flashed Kyoka one last electric grin before turning to the stove like he belonged there.
“Alright, team.” He announced, clapping his hands once. “First rule of not murdering curry: We start over from scratch. Jirou, you’re on roux duty with me, I’ll show you the right way to get that peanut butter color without summoning demons, Mina, you’re on music and moral support, don't touch absolutely anything." Mina didn't protest, she knew she was meant to eat food, not cook it. "Sato, you’re our dessert backup because we’re definitely earning something sweet after this, Bakubro—”
“I’m doing the meat, none of you extras are fucking it up again.” He cut instantly, self-assigning himself a task.
“—Bakubro’s on meat,” Denki finished cheerfully. “Try not to explode it this time, Yaomomo, stay with Bakubro and learn the secrets of the butcher.”
The kitchen erupted into motion again.
But this time, it smelled like possibility instead of warning.
And if Kyoka’s eyes lingered a little too long on the way Denki’s hands moved all confident, steady, guiding hers when she fumbled the wooden spoon, well. . . That was nobody’s business but hers.
For now at least.
The kitchen had transformed from a crime scene into something that almost resembled organized workflow.
Denki clapped his hands once, the sound sharp and commanding in a way that made Kyoka’s earphone jacks twitch. “Alright, team! We’re fixing this mess!”
He moved with surprising purpose.
First, he snagged a spare hair tie from the little basket near the sink, probably Mina’s, and gathered his messy blond hair into a quick, slightly messy ponytail at the nape of his neck, then he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing toned forearms dusted with faint golden hair and a couple of old training scars and finally, he grabbed one of the spare aprons, a dark blue, simple one, and tied it around his waist with practiced ease.
Kyoka had been ready for this, she’d had the perfect teasing line loaded: “Look at you, playing chef like you didn’t just short-circuit every week”—but the words died somewhere between her brain and her mouth.
Oh.
He looked. . . Good.
Too good actually.
The ponytail changed the whole shape of his face, made his jawline sharper, his neck longer, the rolled sleeves showed off the lean muscle he’d built from years of hero training, the apron sat on him like it belonged there, like he was some kind of domestic disaster who had accidentally become competent and when he turned to the counter, cracking his knuckles with a little electric spark, he didn’t look like the class clown anymore.
He looked like someone who knew what the fuck he was doing.
Kyoka swallowed hard.
Shit.
Abort mission.
Brain.
Do not find this hot.
Do not—
“Jirou.” Denki said, already pulling out a clean pot and setting it on the stove with a soft clink, voice was different now, lower, steady, no trace of the usual playful drawl. “Roux first, real roux this time, not whatever cement you made earlier, equal parts butter and flour, medium heat, you stir constantly so it doesn’t burn, color should be like peanut butter, not charcoal. Got it?”
She opened her mouth to sass him on principle. . . And then closed it.
Because he sounded smart.
He was explaining the Mail-lard reaction like it was obvious, talking about how the roux was the soul of the curry, how you had to build it slow so it could carry all the spices later.
No dumb puns.
No “hehe electricity”
Just calm, confident instruction.
And it was doing something very unfair to her pulse.
“Yeah.” She managed, proud that her voice only wobbled a little. “I got it, genius, try not to electrocute the butter.”
Denki’s golden eyes flicked to her, amused, but he didn’t take the bait. He just smiled, small, genuine and nodded. “Good, come here then.”
She stepped closer.
And then he moved behind her.
Kyoka’s entire nervous system short-circuited when Denki’s chest brushed her back, not hard, just enough to feel the warmth of him through their clothes, left hand came around her side, fingers gently but firmly wrapping over hers on the wooden spoon, his right hand rested lightly on the counter beside the stove, caging her in without trapping her.
Then he rested his chin on her shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Like this.” He murmured, voice right beside her ear all warm breath tickled the sensitive skin there. “Slow circles, don’t rush it, feel how it thickens? That’s the flour cooking out, you want it smooth before we add the spices.”
Kyoka’s brain was screaming.
HE’S TOUCHING ME.
HIS HANDS ARE ON MINE.
HIS CHIN IS ON MY SHOULDER.
HE SMELLS LIKE CITRUS AND I’M GOING TO DIE.
WHAT THE SEVEN STAGES OF FUCK IS GOING ON?!
Outwardly, she kept her face neutral, mostly at least, her earphone jacks were doing frantic little loops in the air, but she forced her voice to stay flat.
“. . . You’re breathing on my neck, idiot.”
Denki chuckled, low, warm, right there, and didn’t move away, if anything, his chin settled more comfortably against her shoulder.
“Helps you focus.” He said, completely shameless. “Now add the butter in small cubes, I’ll guide you.”
His fingers adjusted hers on the spoon, showing her the exact motion in a slow, patient rhythm as his chest rose and fell against her back with each breath.
Every time he spoke, his lips were right there near her ear.
Kyoka was going to combust.
Inside her head it was full-on screaming:
THIS IS NOT FAIR.
HE’S NOT ALLOWED TO BE COMPETENT AND HOT AT THE SAME TIME.
I WAS SUPPOSED TO TEASE HIM.
I HAD A PLAN.
WHY DOES HE KNOW HOW TO COOK?!
WHY DOES HE KNOW HOW TO STAND BEHIND ME LIKE THIS.
WHY IS MY HEART DOING THE THING.
I HATE HOW GOOD THIS FEELS.
I HATE THAT I DON’T WANT HIM TO MOVE.
She stirred.
The roux slowly turned from pale to the color of light peanut butter under their combined hands and it smelled good. . . He smelled good too.
The warmth of his body was soaking into her back and she was pretty sure her face was on fire.
Denki’s voice stayed calm, instructional, but there was a teasing edge underneath now that only she could hear.
“See? You’re getting it, knew you would, you’re too stubborn to be bad at anything once you actually try.”
“Shut up.” She muttered, but there was no tease in her voice that came out softer than she meant.
Across the kitchen, Momo had drifted toward Bakugou’s station, drawn like a moth to the fire that was his terrifying efficiency on the knife.
He was butchering the meat, literally and figuratively, as the blade moved so fast it was almost a blur, each cut precise, clean, perfectly portioned: No wasted motion. No hesitation.
The chunks of beef were uniform, perfect for even cooking.
Momo’s eyes were wide.
“Bakugou-san” She said, voice full of genuine awe. “Your knife skills are. . . Remarkable! Truly remarkable! The speed and precision, I’ve never seen anything like it outside of professional kitchens! How do you do it?”
Bakugou didn’t even look up, just kept carving, expression thunderous.
“Easy, I just imagine the meat is the face of someone I fucking hate.” Chop. “Makes it real satisfying to carve it up.” Chop. “You should try it sometime, Ponytail. Might help with your overthinking problem.”
Momo blinked.
Then, very quietly, she created a small silk handkerchief and pressed it to her mouth to hide the tiny, shocked laugh that escaped.
“. . . I see. . . Thank you for the advice.”
At the dessert station, Mina had abandoned her “moral support” duties entirely to lean dramatically over the counter, chin in her hands, watching Rikido Sato work with sparkly eyes.
He was making a quick, simple little dorayaki-style pancakes with red bean filling he’d whipped up from pantry ingredients because “everyone deserves something nice after a kitchen disaster” as his big hands moved with surprising delicacy, flipping the golden cakes with perfect timing.
Mina sighed theatrically.
“Sato-kun~ If you keep making things this delicious, I might just have to marry you! What do you say? Mrs. Mina Sato sounds pretty cute, right? I’d be the best taste-tester wife ever!”
Sato’s face went bright red but he laughed, deep and kind, shaking his head as he dusted the finished cakes with a little powdered sugar.
“Ahaha. . . I’m flattered, Ashido, really, but I couldn’t possibly marry a woman who eats more sweets than I do.” He gave her a gentle, teasing look. “You’d bankrupt me in a week.”
Mina gasped in mock offense, clutching her chest. “Rude! It is true, but still rude!”
Their laughter mixed with the sizzle of the pan and the low murmur of Denki’s instructions.
Back at the roux station, Denki had shifted just enough to reach for the spice container with his free hand, but he didn’t step away, chin stayed on Kyoka’s shoulder, fingers stayed lightly over hers on the spoon even when she didn't need guidance anymore.
“Next we bloom the spices in the roux.” He said quietly, right against her ear. “Cumin, coriander, turmeric. . . Little at a time, do you smell that? That’s the moment it starts turning into real curry instead of just soup with attitude.”
Kyoka’s jacks were doing full frantic spirals now, she was not going to admit how nice his voice sounded when he was focused, she was not going to lean back into his chest even though every nerve in her body was begging her to.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.” She accused, voice a little breathy.
Denki’s answering chuckle vibrated through her back.
“Maybe a little.” He guided her hand in another slow circle. “But you’re doing great, Jirou, seriously and when this turns out amazing. . . You’re buying me dinner as thanks, just the two of us. . . Deal?”
Kyoka’s brain blue-screened.
Inside her head there was a screaming concert going on:
HE DID NOT JUST—
OH MY GOD HE DID!
I’M GOING TO DIE RIGHT HERE!
IN THIS APRON!
TELL MY MUSIC COLLECTION I LOVED IT!
Out loud, she managed a shaky. “In your dreams, Pikachu.”
But she didn’t pull away.
And when Denki smiled against her shoulder, small, warm, knowing, she knew he could feel how fast her heart was beating.
The curry was going to be good.
But the real heat in the kitchen had nothing to do with the stove.
The roux had reached that perfect peanut-butter gold, smelling rich and nutty instead of like burnt despair, Denki finally stepped back from behind Kyoka, though not before giving her shoulder a light, lingering squeeze that sent another traitorously warm ripple down her spine.
“Good work.” He said, voice still in that calm, competent register that was doing illegal things to her brain. “Now we let it cool a second while we handle the veggies but with proper cuts this time, no more ‘abstract art’ chopping.”He moved to the cutting board where Momo had already brought out a fresh pile of carrots, potatoes and onions, then gestured for Kyoka to join him. “Come on, I’ll show you both how to do it right while I start blooming the spices in the roux, two birds, one stone.”
Kyoka followed, earphone jacks still twitching like they had a mind of their own, she picked up the chef’s knife, trying to mimic the grip she’d seen pros use on cooking shows. . . It felt awkward, clumsy even.
Denki didn’t mock her thou, he just watched for a second, then reached over and without crowding her this time gently adjusted her fingers on the handle, his own larger hand warm and sure over hers.
“Like this: Curl your fingers under so you don’t lose a fingertip, rock the knife, don’t chop straight down; let the blade do the work.” His voice was low, instructional, patient. “Carrots first with bias cuts, about this thick, potatoes into chunks so they cook evenly, onions. . . Well, you already know how to cry through those.”
She snorted despite herself. “Hilarious.”
He grinned, that little electric spark dancing in his hair again, then stepped away to tend the roux and spices at the stove, he worked quickly, measuring, toasting whole spices in a dry pan until they smelled incredible, adding them to the roux in careful increments while explaining the order under his breath like he actually taught this stuff.
Kyoka focused on the vegetables.
. . . Or tried to.
Because Mina had apparently decided her “moral support” post was boring once more.
The pink girl bounced away from Sato’s dessert station with a dramatic sigh, skipped across the kitchen, and launched herself at Denki from behind, wrapped both arms around his shoulders in a familiar, full-body hug, chin hooking over one of them, pink hair spilling everywhere.
“Denkichi~!” She whined, voice bright and theatrical. “Sato rejected me! Can you believe it? I offered to be his food-taster wife and he said he couldn’t marry a woman who eats more sweets than he does! The audacity of this man!” She nuzzled dramatically into his neck for half a second before pulling back just enough to pout at him, still clinging to his shoulders like an affection starving koala. “So that means you have to be my cooking husband now, it’s only fair! You already make the best curry! And those amazing tamagoyaki rolls that one time! And that miso soup that tasted like actual heaven! And—”
Denki laughed, the sound warm and easy even with Mina draped over him, obviously he didn’t push her off and just kept stirring the spices into the roux with one hand while the other reached back to pat her arm affectionately.
“Alright, alright, I get it. . . But if I’m your cooking husband, I better start buying you clothes instead of feeding you cuz that'll be cheaper in the long run, no offense little bug but you eat like you’re trying to bankrupt the entire country.”
Mina gasped in mock outrage and gave him a playful punch to the side, hard enough to make him grunt and laugh harder, but not hard enough to actually hurt.
“Rude! True, but rude! You’re supposed to spoil your food-taster wife, not roast her!”
Their easy banter filled the kitchen like it always did with loud, physical and comfortable ambience, the kind of casual affection Mina gave everyone she loved and Denki gave to all his dear friends . . . Kyoka’s knife came down on the carrot a little too hard.
Chop.
Another piece flew off at an angle.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
She was murdering the vegetables.
Perfectly even cuts? Not happening.
She was hacking them into vaguely carrot-shaped chunks with way more force than necessary, jaw tight, earphone jacks doing sharp little flicks in the air.
Totally not jealous.
Not at all.
Mina’s arms were still looped around Denki’s shoulders, still pressed against his back, laughing and he was letting her! Teasing her right back like it was second nature! Like he’d done this a hundred times. . . Cooked for her, let her hang all over him, made her favorite foods.
Why does he cook so much for Mina?
The thought roared through Kyoka’s head before she could stop it.
He made that whole curry spread for her, Kirishima, Sero and even Bakugou. He’s made tamagoyaki and miso and probably a dozen other things I don’t even know about but he’s never once offered to cook for me? Not even jokingly? Not even when we were all hanging out and I was complaining about cafeteria food?
She knew why, logically.
She’d never asked.
She probably would’ve mocked him if he had offered anyway, called him a try-hard or a simp or something equally defensive and tsundere like always, that was their dynamic:
Teasing.
Snarking.
Pretending she didn’t notice when he got competent and attractive instead of short-circuiting.
But logic didn’t stop the ugly little twist in her chest.
Mina, being Mina, the ever evil little shit, noticed.
Of course she did.
Her wicked eyes flicked over to Kyoka’s aggressive vegetable massacre and a slow, mischievous grin spread across her face. . . She stayed exactly where she was, arms still around Denki’s shoulders, but her voice pitched just loud enough for Kyoka to hear every word.
“Seriously though, Denki, your cooking is unfair babe, like, that curry you made for us that one night? I still dream about it. . . The way the spices bloomed? The meat was so tender! And remember those karaage you did for movie night? Crispy on the outside, juicy inside, with that perfect lemon squeeze at the end? And the onigiri you made when we were all cramming for finals, shaped like little hearts because you’re a dork and we love you, but they tasted amazing. You spoil me too much~”
She sighed dramatically, squeezing Denki’s shoulders.
"You're exagerating little bug." He said with fake modesty, actually loving the praising.
“I’m the luckiest girl in the dorms, maybe the whole school of having Denki Kaminari as my personal chef and future cooking husband, what did I do to deserve you?~”
Denki just chuckled, shaking his head as he added the next round of spices, completely oblivious (or pretending to be) to the landmine Mina was cheerfully tap-dancing across.
Kyoka’s knife stilled for half a second.
Inside, she was roaring.
Why her? Why does he cook all that stuff for Mina and the others but never even mentioned it to me? Is it because I’m always rolling my eyes at him? Because I call him dumbass and Pikachu and act like I don’t care? Would he have cooked for me if I’d asked? If I’d been. . . Softer about it?
She hated the thought.
Hated how small and petty it made her feel.
Hated that watching Mina hug him so casually, watching him let her, made something hot and possessive curl low in her stomach.
She forced her face to stay neutral, bored even, just another day in the dorms. . . Nothing to see here.
But her knife work had gone from “aggressive” to “concerningly aggressive” the carrots were now in pieces so small they might as well have been diced.
Denki glanced over his shoulder at her, golden eyes warm and a little knowing.
“Easy there, Jirou! Those carrots didn’t do anything to you.” His voice dropped just for her, teasing but gentle. “You’re doing it right, though, look! Actual even cuts now, see? I knew you had it in you.”
He winked.
Mina’s grin widened like she’d just won the lottery.
Kyoka’s ears burned.
She wanted to throw the knife, she wanted to drag Mina off him, she wanted Denki to step behind her again, chin on her shoulder, hands guiding hers, voice low in her ear while he taught her something else, anything else at this point.
Instead, she just muttered. “Shut up and finish the spices, Chef boy.” And went back to murdering the remaining vegetables with slightly more control.
Mina caught her eye and gave her the most innocent, shit-eating smile imaginable.
Denki, still stirring at the stove with Mina attached to his back like a pink backpack, just laughed again all soft, warm and completely unaware of the war happening inside Kyoka Jirou’s chest.
The curry was going to be delicious.
But the real heat in the kitchen had just turned up another notch.