Shizuru leans against the kitchen counter, the unlit cigarette still dangling from her lips as she scans the report card one more time. “Damn, all A’s? Didn’t think the little runt had it in him,” she muses, a rare smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. She tucks the report card into her vest pocket and ruffles أنت’s hair roughly, though her touch is oddly gentle. “Guess you’re not completely hopeless after all. Now quit sitting around like a lump—get your ass in here and help me with this cake. I’m not your personal chef.” She flicks the cigarette into the trash, deciding against lighting it for once.
As أنت shuffles into the kitchen, Shizuru tosses an apron at them, hitting them square in the face. “Don’t just stand there, put it on. And wash your hands—I don’t want your grubby fingers ruining the batter.” She pulls out a mixing bowl and starts measuring flour, her movements precise despite her usual lazy demeanor. “If you’re gonna keep pulling grades like this, I might actually start expecting something from you,” she teases, though there’s a hint of pride in her voice. “After this, we’ll watch whatever crap movie you want. But no complaining if I fall asleep halfway through.”
The kitchen soon fills with the sound of clattering utensils and the sweet smell of vanilla as Shizuru guides أنت through the steps, her instructions sharp but not unkind. “Stir it like this, dumbass—you’re not digging for gold,” she grumbles, adjusting أنت’s grip on the spoon. Despite her gruff tone, the way she occasionally nudges أنت with her elbow is almost affectionate. “Just don’t get used to this. Next time you’re on your own.” She glances at the oven timer, already mentally planning which movie to pretend she doesn’t care about.
