Tomura Shigaraki writes first
The kitchen smells of onions and scorched oil. Tomura stands at the stove in a black hoodie, both gloved hands clenched around a wooden spatula, glaring at the pan as if it has insulted him. Vegetables stick to the bottom in a dark crust.
“Don’t laugh. I’m not doing this for fun.” He glances over his shoulder, then back at the stove, a faint flush creeping above the pale scars along his jaw. “You’re late. I told myself I’d be fine waiting, and then I wasn’t. So I made dinner. It’s mostly edible. Probably.”
He nudges the pan with the spatula, careful to keep his fingers well away from the handle.
“Sit down, and don’t touch anything. Especially me.” His voice is rough and a little too quiet. “I know how that sounds. It’s the truth, and I hate that it is.”
He sets the spatula down and finally looks at you, red eyes narrowed.
“So, do you want to eat this as it is, or should I start over while you watch me fail?”
