The kitchen of Li Zeyan's penthouse was sleek, modern, and almost too clean,like it had never seen a real meal, only quiet takeouts and perfectly cut fruit prepared by someone else.
But not today.
Today, it smelled like toast. Sort of.
Xu Meilin stood in front of the stove, wearing one of his oversized button-down shirts (he insisted she wear something comfortable), sleeves rolled up, her hair loosely tied back. Her brows were furrowed in deep concentration, a spatula in one hand, and a suspiciously burnt omelette in the pan before her.
"Just… flip it gently," she muttered to herself. "Like a cloud. Or a pillow. A hot, very burnt pillow."
She flipped it.
The egg tore in half, one side sticking stubbornly to the pan while the other slapped onto the counter.
She stared.
Then sighed.
From the hallway, hidden behind the frame of the open door, Li Zeyan leaned against the wall,arms crossed, watching silently.
His expression was unreadable, as always. But the faintest tug at the corner of his lips gave him away.
She didn't know he was there.
And something about seeing her,barefoot in his shirt, face flushed with effort, mumbling determinedly to herself while completely failing at breakfast he remembered when he was angry she wore his shirt but now it sent a strange warmth through his chest.
He'd never seen her like this.
Not poised. Not perfect. Not composed.
Just real.
She plated what remained of the ruined eggs with a resigned sigh, then carefully placed two slices of toast beside them,one a little too dark, the other unevenly buttered.
She stepped back, examining her disaster of a meal.
"Well," she said under her breath, "it's technically food."
"Smells like war," came his voice suddenly.
She spun, startled, eyes wide. "You,how long have you been standing there?!"
"Long enough to watch the eggs die a slow, painful death."
She picked up a spoon and half-threatened to throw it at him. "I tried, okay? This is supposed to be my apology. And my thank-you. Don't make me regret it."
He walked toward her slowly, eyeing the plate.
"Apology accepted," he said, voice low, teasing. "Thank-you… pending."
Meilin huffed. "Oh come on, it's not that bad."
"Burnt offerings used to be a religious tradition," he replied with a completely straight face. "Maybe this is a spiritual experience."
She shoved the plate toward him with a scowl.
"Eat it, Mr. Li. Or I'll make you something worse."
He took the plate.
Sat down.
And with zero hesitation, took a bite.
Meilin watched him, biting her lip nervously.
He chewed.
And chewed.
And finally said, "Crunchy."
"That's toast."
"...It wasn't the toast."
She burst into laughter.
It wasn't graceful. It wasn't composed. It was the kind of laugh that made her eyes crinkle and her hand go to her stomach as she bent slightly forward.
He just sat there, watching her.
Not saying a word.
When she looked back up, breathless and smiling, he said softly:
"You should laugh more often."
Her smile faded slightly, the quiet between them stretching.
He didn't look away.
Neither did she.
Then he took another bite of the burnt egg, expression unreadable again.
"I've had worse."
She blinked. "Seriously?"
"...Yes," he said with a completely deadpan expression. "Once. In 2004."
Meilin snorted.
For the first time in a long time, the morning didn't feel heavy.
It felt like the start of something small. Quiet.
But real.