The sun had already vanished behind the horizon as Yuma and Serena returned home, still buzzing from the long day at Hijikara High. Serena, in a rare moment of playfulness, nudged Yuma as they walked toward the house.
"Try not to make a fool of yourself tonight, Yuma" she whispered, smirking. "Alumna's watching. Don't embarrass yourself… or me."
Yuma groaned, cheeks heating. "I… I'll try. But you're not exactly helping with that comment."
Before he could say more, Erika and Aunt Melda appeared at the doorway. Serena froze as her mother reached out and grabbed her from behind.
"Oh no, Serena," Erika said, a sly glint in her eyes. "You're not getting off easy. If Yuma is training tonight, so are you. It's time to learn the ways of a proper wife."
Serena's eyes went wide. "Wait! What?! I… I didn't agree to this! HELP! Let go! Mom, Aunt Melda!" She flailed dramatically, twisting in their grip.
"You're coming with us," Aunt Melda said, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Cooking, household basics—non-negotiable."
Serena's panic spiked. "Not negotiable?! I… I can't… I didn't sign up for this!"
Upstairs in the kitchen, Serena picked up a knife for the first exercise: chopping onions. Her hands trembled, and the knife slipped, sending pieces skittering across the counter.
"Ughhh! How is this so hard?!" she shrieked, knocking over a bowl of water in her frustration.
Aunt Melda sighed but helped her steady her grip. "Focus, Serena. Precision and care. Cooking is a skill, just like any other training."
Serena rolled her eyes. "Skill?! I can barely hold a knife! Why do I even need to learn this?!"
Erika glanced at her calmly. "You'll understand, Serena. One day, you'll have responsibilities beyond yourself."
Serena tried again, this time making a pancake. She poured too much batter, causing it to overflow and stick to the pan. Flames briefly licked the edges before Aunt Melda doused it with a towel. "Aaaah! It's attacking me! HELP!" Serena screamed, backing away.
Meanwhile, downstairs, Yuma's Geist training had begun. Sweat dripped from his brow as Alumna's eyes scrutinized every move. Each kick, punch, and roll left him gasping, but he pushed on, thinking of Serena's teasing earlier. I'll survive… somehow… for her.
Back in the kitchen, Serena attempted a sauce. She stirred too fast, spilling it across the counter, then added salt instead of sugar to the dessert. Flour dusted her hair, and she muttered under her breath, "This is impossible! I… I… I can't even cook properly!"
Erika finally spoke, voice calm but firm. "Serena, why are you complaining? Cooking isn't just for fun. One day, you may need to feed a household—or your future children."
Serena froze. "Children?! Who said me and Yuma are having kids?!"
Aunt Melda chimed in, smirking knowingly. "Eventually, you two will. And as a mother, would you let them grow up eating only fast food?"
Serena groaned, her hands trembling as she tried to rescue a burned pancake. "I… I… I'm trying my best to learn, aren't I? And I told you before… don't expect grandchildren! Me and Yuma are just friends!"
Erika sighed, a nostalgic smile softening her stern expression. "Serena, when Reige and I were first married, I couldn't cook to save my life either. Every meal was a disaster. But I learned. That's why I'm telling you this—learning now makes life easier later. You'll thank me someday."
Serena paused mid-chop, flour on her cheeks, sauce smudged on her sleeve. "I… I… I guess… I'm trying… but… Ughhh! Why does surviving the kitchen feel harder than Geist training?!"
Downstairs, Yuma collapsed on the mats, chest heaving, muscles trembling, but determination still burning in his eyes. Alumna's voice cut through his exhaustion. "Control, awareness, precision. Every movement matters, Ikaragi-kun."
Back upstairs, Serena finally managed one decent slice of onion—but her next attempt sent it flying across the counter, narrowly missing Aunt Melda. "Ughhh! I… I can't… I… ohhh… this is chaos!"
Erika stepped closer, gently correcting her stance. "Every master was once a beginner. Every skill takes effort. You're learning, slowly yes, but you are learning. Just like Yuma is downstairs. Both of you, preparing in your own ways for what's ahead."
Serena muttered, cheeks flushed, flour smudged across her nose, "I… I… I'm trying…"
Aunt Melda smirked, guiding her hands to chop properly. "One slice, one stir, one dish at a time. You'll get there. And remember, you're doing this not just for yourself, but for the life you may share with Yuma someday."
Serena groaned, muttering, "I… I… still say we're just friends!"
The night pressed on with two simultaneous lessons: downstairs, Yuma's Geist training tested his endurance and skill; upstairs, Serena wrestled with knives, sauce, and her own frustration. Chaos and sweat intertwined, but through it all, both were learning, both were growing—and somewhere in that struggle, the bond between them quietly strengthened.
By the time the clock struck later in the evening, Yuma was drenched in sweat, muscles aching from the relentless Geist drills. Alumna stood nearby, observing his movements, occasionally giving sharp corrections, and Yuma pushed himself further, determined not to falter.
Upstairs, Serena leaned against the counter, wiping sweat and flour from her forehead, her apron streaked with sauce and bits of chopped vegetables scattered across the floor. Despite the mess, a mischievous grin tugged at her lips.
She peeked cautiously down the staircase, careful not to draw Alumna's attention, and spotted Yuma struggling through a series of push-ups, every movement precise but clearly exhausting him.
"Hmm…" she murmured to herself, flour-dusted fingers to her chin. "Looks like someone's getting tired."
Serena tiptoed closer to the railing, resting her elbows on it, and called out in a teasing tone, loud enough for Yuma to hear:
"Hey… Yuma! Don't collapse on me! I'd be so disappointed if you fainted before you even get to protect me properly!"
Yuma froze mid-push-up, blinking up at the balcony. His chest heaved. "S-Serena…! I… I'm fine! I'm… holding up!"
Serena grinned wider, flour smudged across her nose. "Are you sure? You look… sweaty… tired… and kinda pathetic, actually. Maybe you need me to come down there and show you how it's done!"
Yuma groaned, pressing his forehead to the mat. "I… I don't think I need… your help… especially if it involves teasing me!"
Serena giggled, leaning further over the railing, resting her messy elbows on the wooden edge. "Oh, I'm just saying… don't embarrass yourself. Remember, I'm watching. And you know I don't go easy on anyone—especially not my "husband"."
Yuma's cheeks flushed bright red. "I… I… wait… what?!"
Serena smiled and pulled back slightly, flour-covered hands brushing her hair from her face. "Just keep going. You might actually survive this if you listen… and don't collapse."
Yuma groaned again, muttering under his breath as he struggled through another set of push-ups. "I… really… should've kept my mouth shut…."
Serena leaned back, satisfied, and whispered to herself, amused, "Oh, I think this is going to be fun…"
Even amid the chaos of cooking disasters, sweat, and relentless training, the two of them found themselves in that familiar, playful rhythm. Teasing, challenging, and quietly supporting each other—even if neither would admit it out loud.
The night stretched on, messy and grueling, but in those moments, the bond between them deepened—a mixture of frustration, amusement, and something quietly tender beneath the surface.
Serena finally slumped against the kitchen counter, exhausted and disheveled. The apron clung to her with sweat and flour stains, the chopped vegetables were scattered across the countertop, and a few sauce splatters marked the floor—a chaotic masterpiece of her first "wife's training" session.
Erika appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, a small smirk playing on her lips. "Well, Serena… I hope you've learned something tonight."
Serena groaned loudly, dragging herself upright. "I… I think I've learned enough! My hands are sore, my brain is fried, and I… I am NOT signing up for this again!"
Erika's smirk widened. "Oh? And what about your future kids? You want them growing up on fast food and instant noodles?"
Serena threw her hands up in exasperation. "How many times do I have to tell you, Mom?! Don't expect any grandchildren from me! Yuma and I are just… friends!"
Aunt Melda, standing nearby with her arms folded, chuckled softly. "Friends, huh? Well, even friends need to eat well. And someone has to cook for them, don't they?"
Serena groaned again, flopping dramatically onto the nearest chair. "I… I'm trying my best to learn, okay?! You don't need to guilt-trip me about some imaginary kids!"
Erika shook her head playfully, stepping closer. "No excuses. Back to class tomorrow. If you don't practice, you'll never learn how to cook properly for your future husband—or anyone else."
Serena narrowed her eyes, throwing a mock glare. "I… said… DO NOT EXPECT ANY GRANDCHILDREN! Do you hear me?! I am NOT having kids with Yuma! Not ever!"
Erika chuckled, a warm, teasing glint in her eyes. "We'll see about that, young lady. For now… get some rest. Tomorrow, the kitchen awaits."
Serena buried her face in her hands, muttering, "I… I can't believe this is my life… cooking, training, teasing… and all because of that guy… and my parents…"
Meanwhile, Yuma, somewhere below in the training grounds, had finished his Geist drills and was wiping sweat from his brow, glancing up at the windows where he could just make out Serena's flour-covered silhouette. He shuddered slightly at her glare, muttering to himself, "I… should've known… I really should've kept my mouth shut…"
Even amid exhaustion and chaos, a small smile tugged at Serena's lips. Despite the teasing, the mess, and the endless expectations, this was… somehow, their life. And she wouldn't trade it… not entirely.