Caelan stares at her.
The most driven, technically perfect student at Aurum Academy has just asked him to teach her magic. To teach her a sense he can't describe with words any more than he could describe the color blue to a person born blind.
So he gives her the only answer he can.
"No."
The word is small, but it lands with the force of a physical blow. Nyra recoils as if slapped.
"No?" she repeats, her voice dangerously quiet. "After everything that just happened… you say no?"
"I can't teach you," Caelan says simply, turning to continue his walk to the dorm. "It's not a recipe. There are no steps. You either feel it or you don't."
She's in front of him again, a whirlwind of frustrated energy, blocking his path. "Then make me feel it! This isn't a game! I'm offering to be your student! Me! Do you know how many chefs would kill for that opportunity?"
"I'm not a chef," he says, and the statement is so absurd, so utterly baffling, that she can only stare. "I'm just… Caelan. I came here to be left alone."
"That's not an option anymore!" she snaps, gesturing wildly at the arena behind them, at the entire campus. "You scored a perfect thirty with a bowl of soup made from trash. You don't get to be 'just Caelan' ever again!"
He sighs, a deep, weary sound. She's right. His bubble of anonymity has been permanently burst. There's no going back.
She sees the resignation in his eyes and presses her advantage, her voice softening slightly. "I'm not asking for your secrets. Just… let me watch. Let me work with you. Let me understand."
He looks at her, at the raw desperation etched onto her face. He knows that hunger. It's the same hunger that drove him to cook his first meal, a deep, gnawing need to understand the soul of things. In her, that hunger is pointed outward, at technique and perfection. In him, it's pointed inward, at feeling and memory.
He looks down at his own hands. They feel empty without a knife or a pan in them. Maybe… maybe teaching isn't about explaining. Maybe it's about sharing.
"There's a thing at the dorm," he says slowly. "Mira mentioned it. Family Meal. Every Wednesday. A few residents cook for the floor."
Nyra's eyebrows shoot up. "You want me to… cook dorm food?"
"I have to cook tomorrow," he clarifies. "You can be my assistant."
She recoils again, this time with pure, instinctual pride. "Your assistant? I am not a commis chef. I don't peel vegetables for first-years!"
"Then you'll never learn," he says with a shrug, and starts walking again. This time, he feels like he might actually make it.
"Wait!"
He stops. He doesn't turn around, but he can feel the monumental, ego-crushing internal war she's waging with herself. He can almost taste her pride dissolving on the back of her tongue, bitter and sharp.
Finally, she exhales, the sound full of defeat and renewed purpose.
"Fine," she says, her voice clipped. "I'll be your assistant. I'll peel your goddamn vegetables. I'll do whatever you say."
He turns back, a rare, almost imperceptible hint of a smile on his face. He has one final condition. One that will be the ultimate test of her commitment.
"But you have to wear the uniform."
"I have a uniform," she says, gesturing to her own pristine white coat.
"Not that one," he says.
He looks pointedly at the hook by his dorm room door, where his safety vest and pink apron hang. A slow, horrified understanding dawns on Nyra's face.
"No. Absolutely not," she states, her voice flat with revulsion. "There is no force on this earth that could make me wear that… that thing."
"I have a spare," Caelan says, as if discussing the weather. "It's a different cat. This one has a little bow tie."
"You are insane," she breathes.
"It's important," he says, his playfulness gone, replaced by a sudden, unexpected sincerity. "The apron keeps you humble. It reminds you that the food is the star, not the chef. If you can't wear it, then you aren't ready to listen."
It's an outrageous demand. A final, ridiculous hurdle. She should laugh in his face. She should walk away and dedicate her life to crushing him in every future duel with her superior, orthodox technique.
But she can't. She can't un-see what she saw tonight. She can't un-taste the ghost of that impossible aroma. He has a piece of a map she didn't even know existed, and the only way to see it is to follow him into his ridiculous, cat-themed world.
She closes her eyes, grits her teeth so hard her jaw aches, and lets out a long, suffering sigh.
"Fine," she bites out. "I'll wear your stupid cat apron."
It feels like the most significant concession of her entire life. A pact sealed in shame and polyester.
A soft, clear voice cuts through their tense standoff.
"A private lesson, it seems. And a violation of Clause 42E, concerning inter-student dueling protocols outside of sanctioned hours."
They both jump. Standing a few feet away, partially obscured by the shadow of an oak tree, is Mira Solstice. The dorm proctor is holding her datapad, her expression unreadable.
"And," Mira continues, her analytical gaze flitting between the two of them, "a clear breach of the campus curfew."
Caelan and Nyra freeze like students caught cheating on an exam. The most intense rivalry in the academy has just been brought to a screeching halt by the threat of a demerit.
Mira taps a few notes onto her screen. "However," she adds, looking up at them under the pale lamplight. "I am finding this symbiotic dynamic to be… statistically significant. I won't file a report. This time."
She gives them a look that is part warning, part scientific curiosity.
"Get back to your dorms."
Mira turns and walks away, her footsteps silent on the path, leaving them standing there in the awkward, charged silence, the promise of a shared kitchen and a humiliating apron hanging between them.