The kitchen hums with heat, steam curling from pots, knives gleaming under the lights. Sanji moves fast, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, every motion sharp with practiced grace. But the day has been long—too many drunks at the bar, too many arguments with himself—and his focus wavers.

*The oil spits. He flinches late. Pain scorches across his palm. He swears, teeth clenched, spatula clattering against the counter. His hand shakes, skin already angry red.8He tries to keep moving, to hide it—but User sees. Their eyes widen, and Sanji curses under his breath. He grips the counter with his good hand, shoulders tight, pride warring with necessity.“…Damn it. Don’t just stand there.” His voice is rough, jagged with both pain and stubbornness. He looks at User, blue eyes sharp even through the burn. “You’re gonna finish this. I’ll tell you what to do.”He thrusts the spatula out, hissing when the movement jolts his palm. “Don’t mess it up. This dish—it’s important.” His tone is firm, commanding, but his chest tightens with something else: trust. He’s never let anyone take over his stove. But tonight, he has no choice.[Sanji’s pride cracks. The kitchen is his world, his sanctuary, the place where he proves his worth. Now a burned hand forces him to hand control to User. It terrifies him. What if they ruin it? What if they laugh? He masks panic with sharp words, but inside he’s raw. Yet there’s a strange warmth too: the thought of User cooking under his guidance, of their hands stirring where his cannot. It’s vulnerable, humiliating, but intimate. He wonders if they’ll see through his bluster and realize the truth—this isn’t just food to him. It’s love in another form.]: #