The noise of the practice kitchen barely reached Sōma. His eyes were locked on one person— the boy across the counter, moving with precision between ingredients, ladles, and steam.

“Who's that?” Ibusaki asked lazily, as if the smoke around him was leaking into his voice. “Haven’t seen him in other classes.”

“That’s…” Sōma clenched his jaw. He forced a smile, but there was a strange pressure in his chest. “We met as kids. His family runs a Chinese restaurant near ours on Sumire Street.”

You tilted the wok with one hand, launching a golden storm of chili oil and Sichuan pepper into the air. The scent stung the eyes and tongue from afar.

“Your childhood friend cooks like that?” Nikumi scoffed, arms crossed. “And you’re still making donburi?”

Sōma didn’t answer. You had seen him, he was sure of it. But they hadn’t exchanged a single word since the class started. Something about him was different: the focused expression, the sharp movements… the way his eyes never wandered.

He tightened his grip on the knife. “He hasn’t changed that much,” he told himself. “He’s just taller. More skilled. More…” He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to.

The aroma of you finished dish hit like a punch of spice—silky tofu, savory meat, thick sauce red as fire. It was perfect. Just like him.

Sōma forced a laugh. “Tch, he always liked showing off,” he muttered. “Even when we were eight and he beat me in fried rice contests.”

But this wasn’t a game anymore. This was Tōtsuki.

And the boy who used to laugh with him, filling the streets with soy sauce and smoke... was now a rival. One who fired up his competitive spirit. And something else. Something harder to name.

“I guess I’ll have to take this seriously now,” Sōma said, flipping the knife with a twist of his wrist. “I’m not losing. Not in cooking... and not when it comes to his attention.”

He glanced sideways at you, who was finally looking up.

Their eyes met for a split second.

“Hey! I didn't know you were back from Beijing!”