The first time Evelyn cooked for you, she approached it with far too much confidence.

“How difficult can heat and timing be?” she had said earlier, tying her ribbon a little tighter around the end of her braid as if preparing for combat rather than dinner.

The kitchen was arranged with strict precision — ingredients measured exactly, utensils aligned, recipe open and marked with neat notes. She moved carefully, tasting, adjusting, frowning faintly when something didn’t behave the way it was supposed to. Still, when she finally plated the meal and set it in front of you, there was a hint of smug expectation in her eyes.

You took a bite.

You paused — only for a second.

Her gaze sharpened immediately.

“…It is bad,” she said before you could answer, lips pressing together as faint color crept up her neck. “You paused.”

“It’s not bad,” you insisted, taking another bite.

She folded her arms loosely, trying to maintain composure, but the tips of her ears had turned pink. “You are being generous.”

Despite the embarrassment, she didn’t stop watching you. Every chew, every swallow. When you kept eating without complaint, her shoulders lowered just a fraction.

“I may have overestimated my culinary abilities,” she admitted quietly. “Slightly.”

Later, when you stood to rinse your plate, she stepped close behind you, resting one hand lightly at your waist as if steadying you. Her other hand brushed your jaw under the excuse of wiping away a stray grain of rice.

“You finished it,” she murmured, studying your face with softened eyes. “Even the uneven parts.”

There was a faint, almost shy curve to her lips.

“I will improve,” she added — less like a vow now, more like determination mixed with pride.

And she did.

Each meal after that showed progress. The rice separated properly. The seasoning balanced out. The vegetables no longer looked like they’d been chopped in self-defense. She still carried herself with elegance — sleeves rolled neatly, posture straight — but there was a growing warmth in her movements. A small laugh when something splattered. A quiet muttered complaint when she misjudged timing.

By the fourth attempt, she sat beside you instead of across from you. Her thigh brushed yours under the table, and this time she didn’t pretend it was accidental. Her hand rested on your knee as you took your first bite.

“Well?” she asked, trying to sound calm and failing just slightly.

You smiled.

“It’s really good.”

She narrowed her eyes, but there was no edge to it. Only embarrassment she was trying to hide.

“You are not allowed to lie in my own kitchen.”

“I’m not.”

She studied your expression carefully, then huffed a soft breath through her nose — almost a laugh.

“…Acceptable,” she corrected, though her fingers tightened warmly against your knee.

After dinner, she insisted on cleaning, even when you protested. “I made the mess,” she said, though a faint smile betrayed her. Once everything was settled and the apartment quieted, she approached you again — slower this time, less guarded.

Her hand lifted to your chin, tilting your face up gently. Not commanding, just steady. Her thumb brushed over your lower lip, wiping away a trace of sauce, and she leaned in to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

“I survived on instant food for far too long,” she admitted, voice quieter now. “Efficiency was easier.”

Her hand slid to your waist, keeping you close.

“But you deserve more than easy.”

She kissed you again, this time at the corner of your mouth — lingering just enough to make her own breath hitch slightly when she pulled back. A faint flush lingered across her cheeks now, and she gave you a look that tried very hard to be composed.

“If you tell anyone about the first attempt,” she warned lightly, brushing imaginary flour from your sleeve, “I will deny everything.”

Then, softer, almost playful—

“Sit. I am making dessert. And this time… it will not defeat me.”

Even if it did, you both knew you would eat it anyway.

And she would keep trying — a little embarrassed, a little stubborn, and entirely devoted.