PHOENIX

Kitchen disasters

In the week that followed Minjun's move into the dorm, he quickly learned that Evara was more than just the blunt, detached girl he'd first met.

There was a kindness in her, a depth of care that wasn't immediately obvious but became undeniable through her actions.

The first night had been a bit of a mess.

Minjun, unprepared for his sudden relocation, didn't have a makeshift mattress to sleep on.

He had resigned himself to spending an uncomfortable night on the hard floor when Evara, without a word, handed him hers.

She didn't make a big deal out of it, simply placed the bedding in front of him and went about arranging a few blankets on the floor for herself.

When he hesitated, unsure whether to accept, she simply stared at him, her expression unreadable, and said, "Take it, or I'll throw it out the balcony."

That settled the matter.

The next morning, Minjun had woken up to find her already awake, going about her business as if sleeping on the floor was a routine occurrence.

He had tried to thank her, but she only gave him a side glance that conveyed as much disdain as one could muster at 6 a.m. "Don't mention it," she had muttered, and he could swear she was suppressing a yawn. "Seriously, don't."

But it wasn't just her unexpected acts of kindness that surprised him—it was her tolerance for the chaos he seemed to bring into the dorm, especially in the kitchen.

Realizing that they couldn't survive on takeout alone, Minjun decided he would learn how to cook.

Evara had given him a look of disbelief when he announced his plan, but she didn't object.

She simply stepped back and let him take the lead, even though it was clear she had little confidence in his culinary ambitions.

The first attempt was a disaster.

Minjun stood in the small kitchen, flipping through a cookbook, trying to decipher the steps to make a simple omelet.

It seemed easy enough—eggs, vegetables, salt, and pepper.

But somehow, by the time he was done, the kitchen looked like a war zone. Eggshells littered the counter, bits of half-chopped vegetables were scattered everywhere, and the omelet itself was a charred mess stuck to the bottom of the pan.

Evara walked in just as the smoke detector started to beep, her face a perfect mask of indifference.

She reached up, casually disabled the alarm, and then surveyed the scene before her.

"Impressive," she said dryly, her eyes flicking over the burnt pan.

"You've managed to make something that's both raw and overcooked at the same time."

Minjun groaned, wiping sweat from his brow. "I'm so sorry," he began, but before he could finish, she cut him off with a sharp look.

"Don't apologize," she snapped, though there was no real anger in her voice.

"If you're going to apologize, do it for nearly setting the kitchen on fire, not for making a mess. I'll deal with the mess." She grabbed a cloth and started wiping down the counter without another word, leaving him standing there, bewildered.

That became the routine. Every day, Minjun would try to cook something new—pasta, stir-fry, rice—and every day, the results were the same.

Disasters ranging from mildly burnt to downright inedible. Yet, every time, Evara would simply clean up after him, never complaining, never scolding. She didn't even eat what he made, content to stick with her instant noodles or whatever she could find in the fridge.