Isabelle Chen wasn't the type to get flustered. She prided herself on her composure on never showing more than she intended. But the moment she left that culinary classroom, something inside her refused to settle.
The late afternoon sun slanted through the trees along Crestwood's quiet streets, casting long, golden lines across the sidewalk. She could hear the rhythmic scuff of her sneakers against the pavement, but her mind was still back in that room. Still full of sugar, and soft laughter, and the boy she had spent three years keeping at arm's length.
Noah Harding.
The golden boy. The competition.
Her rival in everything from academic awards to lunchroom debates. The one person who could match her stride for stride without breaking a sweat and the only one who never treated her like she needed fixing.
He was still annoyingly perfect. But now there was a wrinkle in the equation.
He bakes.
Isabelle let out a small breath-half laugh, half disbelief.
Of all the secrets he could've had. She'd expected something calculated like a backup essay stash or a hidden tutoring gig to game the GPA system. But this?
Frosted cookies. Almond extract. A piping bag.
Something about it unsettled her. Not because it was laughable, but because it wasn't.
Because it made him more real.
And she hadn't realized how little she actually knew about him until now.
When she reached her house a modest, ivy-framed two-story near the edge of town she paused at the gate. The front porch light was already glowing against the soft haze of sunset, and the window above the kitchen flickered warmly. Her chest eased just slightly at the sight.
She stepped inside and immediately caught the comforting aroma of garlic sizzling in oil.
"Baba?" she called, slipping off her shoes in the entryway.
"In the kitchen, ah-Nuo!" her father replied, voice light, content. "Almost ready!"
She followed the sound and peeked in.
Her father stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted with flour. He moved with fluid familiarity, stirring a wok in one hand while tossing chopped scallions onto the cutting board with the other. His hair had gone grayer at the temples this past year, though he still stubbornly insisted he was "young enough to chase off any boys who look too long."
He turned slightly and smiled when he saw her. "Long day?"
"Yeah," she said, offering a small smile. "Just a lot on my mind."
He raised a brow. "Not too much, I hope. First day of senior year. You should be easing into it, not planning world domination already."
"World domination waits for no one," she replied dryly, and he chuckled.
Her Baba had always been more hands-on than other dads, especially since her mom passed a few years back. Not in a hovering, smothering way but in a quiet, ever-present one. He packed her lunch every day until middle school. He still insisted on texting her "Good luck!" before every test. And on nights when she worked too late, he always brought her tea and a fruit plate, unasked.
Now, he reached over and gently tapped her chin. "You've got your thinking face on. Did something happen?"
She hesitated. Noah's face his lopsided smile, the delicate swirl of icing on his cookies flashed in her mind.
"Nothing bad," she said quickly. "Just… unexpected."
He watched her for a moment longer, then nodded. "Okay. You'll tell me when you're ready."
She loved that about him. That he trusted her to open up when she needed to and didn't push when she didn't.
"Dinner in twenty," he added. "Go change. You've got soy sauce on your collar again."
She glanced down, blinked. "What…how?"
He grinned. "I'm psychic. Go."
She smiled and turned for the stairs.
Her room was her sanctuary. Books lined the walls, old movie posters Casablanca, Rear Window, Amélie, Your Name. filled the spaces in between. A string of warm lights looped around her bulletin board, which was half-covered in sticky notes and quotes scribbled in her sharp handwriting.
She dropped her backpack, pulled her curtains closed, and climbed onto her bed with her favorite notebook.
The blue one with the worn edges. The one she only used for poems she didn't let anyone read.
Her pen hovered.
For a few minutes, nothing came.
Then:
Golden hands dusted with sugar,
A boy wrapped in butter and cinnamon.
I never thought he could be quiet.
I never thought I'd like him more that way.
…
She stared at the words.
Too much. Too obvious.
She crossed them out with a swift, frustrated line but not hard enough to make them unreadable. Just enough to convince herself she was letting them go.
She flopped back against her pillows, arm over her eyes.
What was that today? That moment in the kitchen?
It hadn't felt like rivalry.
It felt like discovery.
And she liked it.
Not that she'd admit it to him.
The way he had looked at her when she stepped into the room—half amused, half nervous wasn't the Noah she was used to. And the way he talked about baking, so quietly, like it mattered, like it grounded him?
That had stayed with her.
She'd always thought she knew what kind of person he was. Predictable in his perfection. Easy to label.
But now the picture didn't fit the frame anymore.
She hated that.
She also couldn't stop thinking about the cookie.
Or the way his laugh had made her feel something warm in her chest. Something dangerous.
No. Stop.
This was Noah Harding. Her rival. Her equal. The one person who always pushed her further, made her sharper.
They weren't friends.
They weren't… anything.
Right?
She sat back up, cracked her neck, and reached for her planner.
Right.
Fall Festival planning started next week. Student Council had sent out the co-lead assignments this morning. She hadn't bothered checking.
Now, her stomach twisted.
Her phone buzzed.
[Student Council Update]
Congratulations! You've been selected as Co-Chair for the Fall Festival Planning Committee. Your partner: Noah Harding. See you at the kickoff meeting Monday after school. Let's make this year unforgettable!
…
Her blood turned to static.
Of course.
Of course.
Because the universe had a sense of humor.
She let her head fall forward, forehead thudding softly against her desk. The notebook remained open beside her, those half-crossed-out lines still visible.
She stared at them for a moment.
Then, without entirely realizing why, she uncapped her pen again.
I thought I knew him.
But now I see pieces he never showed.
Not in class, not on the field.
Just in sugar and silence.
And maybe that's the part I want to know most.
…
She didn't cross it out this time.
Instead, she tucked the notebook gently beneath her pillow and reached for her laptop.
If she was going to plan a festival with Noah Harding, she'd need a strategy.
Preferably one that didn't involve feelings.
But as she clicked open a blank document and started outlining ideas, she caught herself smiling… just a little.
She didn't erase it.