The knife moved in steady rhythm under Cheng Yu’s guidance, the sound of blade against chopping board filling the kitchen. Jiang Xiaoshuai tried to focus on the vegetables, but it was impossible with Cheng Yu’s hand wrapped around his, his chest brushing against his back every time they leaned forward together.

“I can do this myself,” Xiaoshuai mumbled, though the words lacked conviction.

“Clearly not,” Cheng Yu said, his voice a low hum near his ear. “But you’re improving. Look—the pieces are almost uniform now.”

Xiaoshuai glanced at the pile of carrots. Half were neat, thin slices; the other half looked as though they’d been hacked with a hammer. He grimaced. “Almost.”

Cheng Yu’s smirk was audible. “Progress, not perfection. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

“Neither was your ego, apparently,” Xiaoshuai muttered, pulling his hand back. He turned to glare at him, but his face was far too close. For a breathless moment, neither moved.

Cheng Yu tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting with amusement—and something softer beneath. “Careful, Xiaoshuai. If you look at me like that, I might misunderstand.”

Xiaoshuai’s heart stuttered. He spun back to the chopping board, ears burning. “You’re imagining things! Who’d ever look at you like that?!”

“Plenty of people,” Cheng Yu said smoothly, picking up a pot to fill with water. “But your reaction is far more entertaining.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’ve been told that before.”

Despite his irritation, Xiaoshuai found himself sneaking glances as Cheng Yu moved effortlessly around the kitchen—adjusting the heat on the stove, testing the oil with a flick of his chopsticks, seasoning with perfect precision. The contrast between his sharp, intimidating reputation and the domestic ease with which he worked made Xiaoshuai’s chest ache with something unnamable.

As Cheng Yu stirred the pan, Xiaoshuai blurted, “Why are you doing this?”

Cheng Yu didn’t look up. “Doing what?”

“Helping me,” Xiaoshuai said, his voice louder than he intended. “You don’t need to. You could be in some fancy office, making money, ruining lives, whatever it is you do—but instead you’re here, teaching me how to chop vegetables like I’m a child.”

Finally, Cheng Yu glanced at him, expression unreadable. “Maybe I like being here.”

The simplicity of the statement made Xiaoshuai’s throat dry. He looked away, pretending to focus on wiping flour off the counter. “You’re lying. You just like laughing at me.”

“That too,” Cheng Yu admitted, a smirk tugging at his lips. “But that’s not the only reason.”

The air thickened with unspoken tension again. Xiaoshuai tried to push it away with sarcasm, but the truth was gnawing at him—this wasn’t just about cooking anymore.

By the time the dish was ready, Xiaoshuai’s nerves were shot. He sat at the table, arms crossed, watching Cheng Yu set down a steaming bowl of stir-fried noodles topped with golden slices of egg.

“Taste it,” Cheng Yu said.

Suspicion narrowed Xiaoshuai’s eyes. “You’re not going to poison me, are you?”

“Not yet.”

“Very reassuring,” Xiaoshuai grumbled, picking up his chopsticks. He twirled the noodles, took a bite—then froze. “Wait. This actually tastes good.”

“Of course it does. You made it.”

Xiaoshuai blinked, caught off guard. “I… made this?”

“With some help,” Cheng Yu said, his tone softer than usual.

For a moment, pride bloomed in Xiaoshuai’s chest. Then, predictably, Cheng Yu added, “Though I did prevent you from turning the garlic into charcoal.”

“Ugh, you can’t just let me have one victory, can you?” Xiaoshuai groaned, dropping his chopsticks dramatically.

Cheng Yu chuckled. “Wouldn’t be fun if I did.”

But his gaze lingered on Xiaoshuai a fraction longer than necessary, as though memorizing the curve of his grin, the way his eyes lit up with triumph despite his complaints.

Later that evening, after Cheng Yu left with his usual smooth farewell, Xiaoshuai sprawled on his couch, staring at the ceiling. His phone buzzed with a message from Suo Wei, reminding him about the upcoming birthday dinner.

He should’ve felt nervous again, worried about messing up—but instead, his thoughts kept circling back to Cheng Yu. The way he’d leaned close, the warmth of his hand, the way he’d said maybe I like being here.

Xiaoshuai buried his face in a pillow, groaning. “Why does he have to say things like that?!”

The following days turned into a pattern.

Every morning, Xiaoshuai swore he’d practice cooking alone. Every afternoon, without fail, Cheng Yu appeared—sometimes with groceries in hand, sometimes empty-handed, always with that insufferable smirk.

“You again?!” Xiaoshuai would exclaim.

“Of course,” Cheng Yu would reply smoothly. “Your progress requires supervision.”

Their sessions were messy, loud, and filled with bickering. Xiaoshuai dropped ingredients, over-salted soups, and once nearly exploded the blender. Cheng Yu teased him relentlessly but always guided him back on track.

And somewhere between flour fights and burned pancakes, Xiaoshuai realized he was looking forward to those visits.

One evening, after a particularly disastrous attempt at dumpling-making, Xiaoshuai sat at the table with flour streaked across his cheeks, pouting at the collapsed dumplings that looked more like deflated balloons.

Cheng Yu leaned against the counter, arms crossed, lips twitching. “Impressive. You’ve invented a new species.”

“Shut up,” Xiaoshuai muttered, jabbing at a dumpling with his chopsticks. “They taste fine, okay?”

He popped one into his mouth defiantly. The dough was undercooked, the filling uneven—but still edible. “See? Not terrible.”

Cheng Yu arched a brow. “If that’s your standard, I pity Suo Wei’s stomach.”

“Don’t you dare insult my cooking in front of Suo Wei!” Xiaoshuai snapped, pointing a flour-covered finger at him.

Cheng Yu chuckled. “Relax. I wouldn’t ruin your grand gesture. But you should let me taste-test, so I can protect him from potential food poisoning.”

“Ugh, fine!” Xiaoshuai shoved a dumpling at him. “Eat it and choke.”

Cheng Yu took it gracefully, biting into it with far more elegance than the dumpling deserved. He chewed thoughtfully, then nodded. “Not bad.”

Xiaoshuai’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yes. Not good, either, but edible.”

“You—!” Xiaoshuai threw his chopsticks at him, laughing despite himself.

For a moment, their eyes met across the flour-streaked table, and the laughter faded into something quieter. Xiaoshuai’s chest tightened, warmth blooming where irritation should’ve been.

One night, after another chaotic cooking lesson, they collapsed on the couch together, too tired to clean. The kitchen was a battlefield of flour, sauce, and dirty dishes, but neither cared.

Xiaoshuai leaned his head back, sighing. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”

“You’ll get there,” Cheng Yu said, his voice unusually gentle. “Besides, I’ve seen worse.”

“Really? Who?”

“Myself, once,” Cheng Yu admitted with a faint smile. “I nearly burned rice the first time I tried cooking. My mother laughed at me for weeks.”

Xiaoshuai sat up, surprised. “Wait—you weren’t always good at this?”

“No one is born skilled,” Cheng Yu said. “Even me.”

It was the first time Cheng Yu had revealed something so personal, and Xiaoshuai found himself staring. He’d always imagined Cheng Yu as someone untouchable, perfect, far above his clumsy world. But here he was, admitting to failure.

“See?” Xiaoshuai said softly, a grin tugging at his lips. “You’re human after all.”

Cheng Yu’s eyes flicked to him, something unreadable flickering in their depths. “Disappointed?”

“No,” Xiaoshuai said quickly. Then, quieter, “Relieved.”

The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Cheng Yu’s gaze lingered, his expression softening in a way Xiaoshuai wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before.

Then Cheng Yu leaned in slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Xiaoshuai…”

The sound of his name on Cheng Yu’s lips sent shivers down his spine. He forgot how to breathe.

But just as their proximity threatened to tip into something more, Cheng Yu leaned back, smirking again. “You have flour on your nose.”

Xiaoshuai blinked, flustered. “You—! Don’t do that!” He rubbed at his face furiously, cheeks burning.

Cheng Yu’s chuckle was soft, almost affectionate.

The days passed quickly, and Suo Wei’s birthday drew closer. Xiaoshuai threw himself into practice with even more determination, and Cheng Yu was always there—sometimes teasing, sometimes serious, always steady.

On the eve of the birthday dinner, Xiaoshuai stood in his kitchen, apron tied, determination blazing in his eyes. “Tomorrow, I’ll prove I can do this.”

Cheng Yu, standing at the stove, glanced at him with a faint smile. “I don’t doubt you anymore.”

Xiaoshuai froze. The words were simple, but they carried weight. He looked away quickly, muttering, “Stop saying weird things.”

Cheng Yu’s smile deepened. “As you wish.”

But Xiaoshuai’s heart was already racing, traitorously ignoring his command.