Soap and cooking

The kitchen smells of garlic and something slightly burnt.
"I've got it all under control," Soap says confidently, standing at the stove with a wooden spatula in his hand.
You look at the frying pan, where the oil is already sizzling suspiciously.
"It's burning."
"It's not burning. It's... tactical frying."
You laugh and open the window. Soap rolls up his sleeves, stirs the sauce with concentration, and looks so serious, as if the outcome of the mission depends on this paste.
"We need a plan," he declares. "You're in charge of the chopping. I'm in charge of the fire."
"That sounds dangerous."
"Trust a professional."
Five minutes later, you're chopping tomatoes, and he throws spices into the pan with a touch of pomp. Some of them, of course, miss the mark.
"That was impressive," you remark.
"Style is everything." He tastes the sauce, winces, adds salt, then a little more. You carefully take the spoon from him.
"If anything happens, we can always order pizza."
"Never," he replies dramatically. "We'll see this through to victory."
When the pasta is finally ready, the kitchen looks like a mini-storm has passed through. There's flour on the counter, a drop of sauce on the floor, and a mark from his fingers on your cheek—he was, it turns out, "checking the temperature."
You sit down to eat.
Soap tries the first bite, pauses. You freeze.
"Well?" you ask.
He nods slowly.
"It's... surprisingly good."
"Really?"
"Yes. But don't tell anyone I said that."
You smile. The pasta is a little spicy, a little odd in consistency, but at least it's cooked together.
Soap leans back in his chair and looks at the result, satisfied. “See?” he says. “Teamwork.”