The apartment was quiet, far too quiet for Jiang Xiaoshuai’s restless energy. He paced from the kitchen counter to the refrigerator and back again, wringing his hands. On the counter lay an open recipe book, its pages already smudged with floury fingerprints and a streak of what looked suspiciously like soy sauce.

“This can’t be that hard,” Xiaoshuai muttered under his breath, glaring at the recipe as though it had personally wronged him. “People cook all the time. People younger than me, older than me, smarter than me, dumber than me—how hard could boiling noodles and frying a few vegetables possibly be?”

His confidence lasted exactly two minutes. By the time the frying pan began to smoke with a faintly alarming hiss, Xiaoshuai was already panicking, frantically fanning the smoke detector with a dish towel.

“No, no, no! Not again! I can’t set this place off a second time, the neighbors will kill me.”

That was the exact scene Guo Cheng Yu stepped into: Xiaoshuai in a cloud of smoke, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, apron strings tied in a hopeless knot around his waist, and a look of utter defeat in his eyes. Cheng Yu leaned against the doorframe, elegant as ever in a crisp black shirt that seemed wildly out of place in Xiaoshuai’s cramped kitchen.

“Quite the performance,” Cheng Yu drawled, his voice smooth with amusement. “Are you summoning demons or making dinner?”

Xiaoshuai spun around, nearly dropping the frying pan in his hands. “You—! Why are you here?”

“Passing by,” Cheng Yu lied easily, his lips curling into a smirk. “And it seems I arrived just in time to save your kitchen from self-destruction. Again.”

“It’s not self-destruction, it’s… an experiment,” Xiaoshuai said defensively, though his ears burned. He turned back to the pan and muttered, “I’m trying to cook something nice for Suo Wei’s birthday. He deserves more than instant noodles.”

Cheng Yu’s eyes softened for a moment, though his tone remained teasing. “Ah, so this is an act of devotion. Touching. Though if Suo Wei eats this, devotion may turn into hospitalization.”

“Shut up,” Xiaoshuai snapped, but the heat in his voice was more embarrassment than anger. He jabbed at the pan with his spatula, only to realize the vegetables inside had transformed into an unidentifiable blackened mess. “Ugh, why is this so hard?”

Cheng Yu took two leisurely steps forward, brushing past Xiaoshuai until he was standing right at his shoulder. He plucked the spatula from Xiaoshuai’s hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Because you treat cooking like a battle. Calm down, Xiaoshuai. Food needs care, not brute force.”

Xiaoshuai tensed under the proximity, the warmth of Cheng Yu’s presence unnervingly close. He opened his mouth to protest, but the businessman had already tilted the pan expertly, sliding the ruined vegetables into the trash.

“Step one,” Cheng Yu murmured, lowering his head until his breath ghosted against Xiaoshuai’s ear, “is to start fresh. And step two…” He turned, his eyes glittering with amusement. “Don’t set the kitchen on fire.”

“You think you’re so funny,” Xiaoshuai grumbled, cheeks heating. “Fine. If you’re so smart, then show me.”

Cheng Yu’s smirk deepened. “Gladly.”

He moved with the kind of ease that Xiaoshuai envied: sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, knife flashing against the chopping board with precision, movements efficient yet graceful. Xiaoshuai tried not to stare, but it was impossible not to notice how Cheng Yu seemed perfectly at home, even in a kitchen that wasn’t his.

“Pay attention,” Cheng Yu said, slicing vegetables into neat strips. “You chop like this, with rhythm, not like you’re trying to murder the poor carrots.”

“I wasn’t murdering them,” Xiaoshuai muttered, picking up another carrot and attempting to mimic the motion. His pieces came out uneven and clumsy, some thin as paper, others thick as logs. “I was just… enthusiastic.”

“Enthusiastic destruction,” Cheng Yu corrected smoothly. He reached over, placing his hand over Xiaoshuai’s, guiding the knife in a steady rhythm. “Like this. Don’t fight the blade. Let it do the work for you.”

Xiaoshuai stiffened at the contact, the heat of Cheng Yu’s hand seeping into his skin. The scent of Cheng Yu’s cologne—clean, sharp, with an undertone of something darker—wrapped around him, making it hard to breathe. He swallowed, focusing desperately on the vegetables in front of him.

“Better,” Cheng Yu murmured, his voice low and close. “See? You’re capable of more than instant noodles.”

“I knew that already,” Xiaoshuai shot back, though the quiver in his voice betrayed him.

They worked side by side, though “worked” was a generous term. Xiaoshuai kept making mistakes—dropping eggs, spilling flour, accidentally turning the mixer on too high so that a cloud of white dust exploded across the counter. Cheng Yu, of course, found each disaster endlessly entertaining.

When Xiaoshuai groaned in frustration, Cheng Yu merely arched a brow. “Are you trying to cook, or are you redecorating your kitchen in flour chic?”

“Oh, shut up!” Xiaoshuai exclaimed, grabbing a handful of flour and tossing it in Cheng Yu’s direction. The white powder landed across Cheng Yu’s chest, dusting his pristine black shirt.

The businessman froze, then slowly turned his head, eyes narrowing. “You just made a very bold move, Xiaoshuai.”

Panic flashed across Xiaoshuai’s face. “It was an accident! I mean—it wasn’t—okay, maybe it was—but don’t you dare—!”

Too late. Cheng Yu dipped his hand into the bag of flour and flicked it expertly at Xiaoshuai, coating his hair and face in a thin white layer.

Xiaoshuai sputtered, wiping his eyes. “You—you—!”

Laughter rang out, low and rich. Cheng Yu looked nothing like the cold, calculating businessman Xiaoshuai was used to. His smirk had softened into genuine amusement, eyes crinkling at the corners as he shook his head.

“You look like a ghost,” Cheng Yu said, his tone warm despite the tease. “A very angry little ghost.”

“Oh, you’re going to regret this,” Xiaoshuai growled, lunging for the flour bag. They wrestled briefly, hands grabbing, flour flying everywhere, until the entire kitchen looked as though a snowstorm had passed through.

At some point, Cheng Yu caught Xiaoshuai’s wrist, holding it firmly but not harshly. Their bodies pressed close in the small space, breath mingling, flour clinging to both of them. The air shifted—no longer playful, but charged with something heavier, unspoken.

Xiaoshuai froze, eyes wide, his pulse thundering in his ears. Cheng Yu’s gaze dipped briefly to his lips before flicking back up, a flicker of something vulnerable hidden beneath the usual confidence.

The silence stretched. Then Cheng Yu released him, stepping back smoothly as though nothing had happened. “Enough playing. Let’s actually finish this meal, or Suo Wei will have no birthday dinner at all.”

Xiaoshuai blinked, shaken, but nodded quickly. “Right. Food. We need food.”

They returned to the task with renewed focus—or at least, Xiaoshuai tried to focus. His mind kept replaying the heat of Cheng Yu’s hand on his wrist, the way his gaze had lingered.

By the time the dishes were finally plated—stir-fried vegetables, a simple soup, and a neatly arranged bowl of noodles—Xiaoshuai collapsed against the counter, exhausted but triumphant.

“I did it,” he said, beaming despite his flour-covered hair. “Okay, maybe we did it. But still—I cooked something real!”

Cheng Yu leaned back, arms crossed, regarding him with that infuriatingly unreadable expression. Then, slowly, a small smile tugged at his lips. “Not bad, Xiaoshuai. Not bad at all.”

Xiaoshuai’s grin widened. For a moment, it wasn’t about Suo Wei, or birthdays, or proving himself. It was just about standing there in the messy kitchen, breathing in the smell of warm food, and seeing that rare smile on Cheng Yu’s face.

And in that moment, Jiang Xiaoshuai realized something terrifying: he wasn’t just cooking dinner. He was in danger of cooking up feelings he hadn’t meant to.