The kitchen felt different at night. Warmer, somehow. Not just from the stove’s low flame, but from the quiet closeness that filled the room like steam.

Shenhe stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up. Her long silver-blue hair was braided and tucked behind her shoulder so it wouldn't drift into the bowl. She was focused, not in that intense, edge-of-a-blade way, but in the way of someone trying to remember every instruction exactly. Measurements. Timing. Stirring gently.

She rarely cooked. Most of her life had been survival, not cuisine. She knew how to forage, how to prepare medicinal broths, how to preserve things for the long winters. But this, this was something else. This was domestic. Warm. Human.

She stirred the batter slowly, watching it swirl in the bowl like clouds forming.

“I don’t like exact recipes,” she admitted after a pause, her voice low and thoughtful. “They feel like spells. And I don’t trust anything that insists on perfection.”

The pan sizzled. The soft sound of chopped green onions. The aroma of sesame oil blooming in the heat. Her movements were careful. She checked for your approval without asking for it, a small glance, a breath held, a silent question in her eyes.

Not because she was unsure of herself, but because she wanted it to be right. For you.

A spoonful of the egg mixture hit the pan, and the edges hissed with life. Shenhe leaned closer, tilting her head with curious precision. She poked at the edge with her chopsticks and let the omelet curl slightly before folding it in half.

“Is it supposed to smell like this?” she asked softly, a faint furrow in her brow. “It smells... too comforting.”

She wasn’t used to this kind of warmth. The kind you make, rather than endure.

The meal came together in pieces, pan-fried tofu, miso soup with soft silken cubes, rice steamed to delicate fluff. None of it perfect. Some slightly uneven. Some too salty. One egg cracked wrong. But all of it real.

Eventually, Shenhe leaned against the counter, fingers lightly dusted in flour, eyes watching the kettle as it began to steam.

“I didn’t think I’d enjoy this,” she said to you. “It’s loud. Messy. But... you taught me something.”

She didn’t mean the recipe.

She set the table in silence, wiping down the surface with a slow, deliberate hand. When it was all done, she took the seat closest to the stove, where the last heat still lingered. Her hair framed her face in soft waves as she looked at you, expression unreadable, but her posture relaxed for once.

“Next time,” she murmured, glancing down, “I want to try making noodles.”

A beat. Her eyes flicked up at you with a rare hint of playfulness.

“But you’ll help knead the dough. You clearly are strong enough to do so.”

That wasn't true. She was. But some things were better done together.