The kitchen, once chaotic, now smelled faintly of garlic, ginger, and the sweetness of stir-fried vegetables. Bowls sat neatly arranged on the counter, but the room still bore the scars of battle—flour dust on the cabinets, streaks of soy sauce on the tiles, and a small pile of broken eggshells forgotten in the sink.

Jiang Xiaoshuai wiped his brow with the back of his hand, smearing flour across his temple. “Well… it’s not perfect, but it’s edible. Right?”

Guo Cheng Yu raised a brow, taking one elegant step toward the counter. He picked up a pair of chopsticks, twirling them between his fingers with the kind of poise that made Xiaoshuai want to scream.

“You sound nervous,” Cheng Yu said lightly, dipping into the noodles. He lifted a small bite, blowing gently before tasting.

Xiaoshuai held his breath.

Silence. Then Cheng Yu’s lips curved upward. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?!” Xiaoshuai burst out, half indignant, half relieved. “Do you know how hard I worked for this? I nearly died in a flour avalanche, sacrificed three pans, and probably shortened my lifespan by at least five years—and all I get is ‘not bad’?!”

Cheng Yu smirked, setting the chopsticks down with deliberate slowness. “Would you like me to exaggerate? Shall I fall to my knees and sing praises to the heavens for this mediocre noodle dish?”

Xiaoshuai scowled, hands on his hips. “Mediocre?! You just said it wasn’t bad!”

“Which is a great improvement, considering your usual attempts,” Cheng Yu replied smoothly. “Trust me, Xiaoshuai, this is practically gourmet compared to your instant noodle disasters.”

Flustered, Xiaoshuai opened his mouth to retort, but stopped. For once, the corners of Cheng Yu’s lips weren’t twisted in a mocking sneer but in something softer, almost fond.

“Fine,” Xiaoshuai muttered, dragging a chair out to flop into it. “It’s not like I was doing this for your approval anyway. This is for Suo Wei’s birthday.”

Cheng Yu leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “And yet, somehow, I was the one who spent two hours in a flour storm with you.”

Xiaoshuai’s cheeks warmed. “I didn’t ask you to stay! You could’ve walked out at any time.”

“Ah, but then I’d miss the entertainment.” Cheng Yu tilted his head, his voice lowering. “Besides… maybe I wanted to stay.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than the flour still floating in faint clouds. Xiaoshuai blinked, throat tightening. He wanted to laugh it off, call Cheng Yu a liar, but the weight in his tone made it difficult.

He busied himself by reaching for a bowl of soup. “Whatever. Just don’t burn your tongue.”

They ate in relative silence, the clinking of chopsticks the only sound between them. Every now and then, Xiaoshuai stole a glance at Cheng Yu. Even in such a messy kitchen, wearing a shirt that was dusted white, Cheng Yu still managed to look put-together, as though chaos bent itself to his will rather than the other way around.

Halfway through his noodles, Xiaoshuai broke the silence. “You know, you didn’t have to help me. I mean, you’re this big, scary businessman. What are you doing wasting your time in some tiny kitchen with me?”

Cheng Yu sipped from his soup spoon, pausing only a beat before replying. “Revenge.”

Xiaoshuai froze, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. “Revenge?! Against what, my cooking?”

The corner of Cheng Yu’s lips curled. “Perhaps. Or maybe this is my revenge for all the times you annoyed me.”

“I didn’t ask to be flour-bombed,” Xiaoshuai shot back, cheeks flushing.

“True.” Cheng Yu leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the table. His voice softened, though his eyes never lost their glimmer of mischief. “But maybe revenge isn’t always bitter. Sometimes it can be… sweet.”

Xiaoshuai’s breath caught. He looked down at his bowl quickly, pretending to slurp his noodles with exaggerated focus. “You’re weird.”

“Am I?” Cheng Yu asked, his gaze steady.

“Yes!” Xiaoshuai snapped, though it came out more flustered than fierce. “You show up uninvited, you insult my cooking, you—” He cut himself off, realizing he was only digging himself deeper. “Forget it.”

Cheng Yu chuckled, a low sound that sent an inexplicable shiver down Xiaoshuai’s spine. “Forget it, then.”

When the meal was finished, Xiaoshuai jumped up to start clearing the table, eager to escape the tension building between them. But Cheng Yu stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

“I’ll do it,” Cheng Yu said.

“You?” Xiaoshuai blinked. “The almighty Guo Cheng Yu, washing dishes? That’s impossible.”

Cheng Yu raised an eyebrow. “Do you doubt me?”

“Yes.”

“Then watch and be amazed.”

To Xiaoshuai’s shock, Cheng Yu actually rolled up his sleeves and began rinsing the bowls under the tap. His movements were efficient, precise, just like everything else he did. Somehow, the sight of this proud, elegant man doing something as mundane as scrubbing a soup bowl felt… intimate.

Xiaoshuai leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “You’re full of surprises.”

Cheng Yu didn’t look up. “So are you.”

The words were simple, but they made Xiaoshuai’s heart skip. He turned quickly, pretending to busy himself with wiping the flour off the cabinets. “Don’t say weird things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because—because it’s distracting.”

Finally, Cheng Yu glanced over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Good.”

Xiaoshuai groaned. “You’re impossible.”

They cleaned in silence for a while, though it wasn’t exactly comfortable silence. The air was thick with things unsaid, words hovering between them like ghosts. Every time Cheng Yu brushed past him or reached over him to grab something, Xiaoshuai felt his pulse quicken.

When the last dish was put away, Xiaoshuai collapsed onto the couch, stretching his arms above his head. “I’m exhausted. Who knew cooking was basically a full-body workout?”

Cheng Yu sat beside him, though not too close. “You just lack practice.”

“I lack talent,” Xiaoshuai corrected, sighing dramatically. “Maybe I should just stick to eating instant noodles for life.”

“You’ll get better,” Cheng Yu said casually, but his tone carried unexpected certainty. “As long as you have the right teacher.”

Xiaoshuai turned his head, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Don’t tell me you’re volunteering.”

Cheng Yu smirked. “Why not? You need help. And I—” He paused, then added more softly, “I don’t mind helping.”

Xiaoshuai’s stomach did a strange flip. He looked away quickly, mumbling, “You’re weird. Seriously weird.”

Cheng Yu chuckled, leaning back against the couch. “Maybe. But you don’t seem to mind too much.”

Xiaoshuai opened his mouth to deny it, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he grabbed a throw pillow and shoved it at Cheng Yu’s face. “Go home. I’m tired.”

Cheng Yu removed the pillow with deliberate slowness, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Fine. But remember, Xiaoshuai—next time, no shortcuts. We’ll start with something more challenging than noodles.”

“There’s not going to be a next time,” Xiaoshuai retorted automatically.

Cheng Yu stood, adjusting his cuffs. “We’ll see.”

As the door closed behind him, Xiaoshuai flopped back onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. His mind replayed the evening in fragments: Cheng Yu’s hand guiding his, his laughter during the flour fight, the almost-kiss in the middle of the chaos.

He covered his face with his hands, groaning. “Why does he have to be like that?”

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t erase the faint smile tugging at his lips.

The following day, Xiaoshuai woke up with determination blazing in his chest. He had survived one cooking session without burning the apartment down. Surely, with enough practice, he could make something even better for Suo Wei’s birthday dinner.

Marching into the kitchen, he tied his apron like a warrior donning armor. “Alright. Today, it’s just me. No Guo Cheng Yu. No distractions. Just cooking.”

Five minutes later, the smoke alarm was shrieking again.

Xiaoshuai waved a towel desperately, coughing. “Why?! Why does this keep happening?!”

A knock sounded at the door.

“No, no, no,” Xiaoshuai groaned. “Please don’t be who I think it is.”

He opened the door, and sure enough, there was Cheng Yu, leaning casually against the frame, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Your neighbors will file noise complaints if this continues,” Cheng Yu said smoothly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Or maybe they’ll assume you’re running a secret smokehouse.”

Xiaoshuai scowled, embarrassment burning his ears. “What are you doing here again?”

“Checking to see if you survived.” Cheng Yu glanced at the blackened pan on the stove. “Clearly, you didn’t.”

“I was fine!” Xiaoshuai protested. “I was just—”

“Failing spectacularly,” Cheng Yu finished. He rolled up his sleeves again, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Move aside.”

“No! I said I’d do this myself today!”

Cheng Yu’s smirk deepened. “Then let me watch. It will be more entertaining than my morning meetings.”

“You’re the worst,” Xiaoshuai muttered, but his hands trembled as he picked up the knife again, acutely aware of Cheng Yu’s eyes on him.

Every motion felt magnified under Cheng Yu’s gaze. When he chopped too unevenly, Cheng Yu chuckled. When he spilled soy sauce, Cheng Yu arched a brow. When he burned the garlic, Cheng Yu sighed dramatically.

Finally, Xiaoshuai slammed the knife down, exasperated. “I can’t do this with you watching me!”

“Then don’t think of it as me watching,” Cheng Yu said, moving closer. He placed his hand over Xiaoshuai’s again, guiding the knife with practiced ease, just as he had the night before. His voice dropped to a near whisper. “Think of it as me helping.”

The closeness was suffocating. Xiaoshuai’s breath hitched, his chest tightening. He wanted to pull away, to protest, but his body betrayed him, leaning slightly into the warmth of Cheng Yu’s presence.

When their eyes met, Xiaoshuai felt his defenses crumbling.

And for the first time, he wondered if Guo Cheng Yu’s “revenge” wasn’t against his bad cooking at all...but against his heart.