I slip into the kitchen on quiet feet, like I'm sneaking into a secret lab to fix my own sins.
First thing I do?
Roll up my sleeves like some dramatic chef from a cooking show who's about to change the fate of the universe with fried rice.
Because yes—Operation Apology Breakfast is officially in progress.
The living room stays silent behind me.
He's still there on the floor, drooling on my mini table, antenna doing peaceful tiny blinks like a sleeping Wi-Fi router.
I peek once.
No movement.
Good.
More time to cook my guilt away.
I grab the pan, butter, eggs, veggies—everything I can find that screams "please forgive my stupid mouth."
And sweets.
Sweets are mandatory.
That man-child alien runs on glucose and C-drama plot twists.
I whisk sugar and milk like my life depends on it.
As the pan starts sizzling, I talk to myself like some deranged kitchen ghost.
"Yep, he can regenerate limbs but not emotional damage, Yunhua. Great job. Make more sugar."
