Chapter 9: Reflections

In the first twenty years of his life, the young master had almost never set foot in a kitchen.
His family had several chefs. After moving out for college he had hourly help; if not, familiar restaurants delivered. Why cook himself?
He didn’t even enter the kitchen, let alone cook with his own hands.
Only now did Pei Zeyang remember that fatal problem. He stared at the ingredients in front of him and fell silent a very long time.
What next?
Start learning now?
He wanted to—can’t do it, learn. He had meant to cook for Wen Mo. But this was the first time. If it tasted bad, Wen Mo was pitiful enough—sick and forced to eat his experiments. Bad for his image in Wen Mo’s eyes.
If he insisted on cooking but couldn’t, Wen Mo might think him unreliable and stop asking for help.
This could not be exposed.
Pei Zeyang decided fast: shut the kitchen door and order from a restaurant he knew.
While waiting for delivery he didn’t idle—found a tutorial and followed it.
In a way Pei Zeyang was confident. First time cooking might fail—but the chance he was a cooking genius wasn’t zero.
What if he had talent?
Whoever’s dish tasted better, he’d serve that to Wen Mo.
He still hoped he would succeed.
The point of cooking was for Wen Mo to like his food—to help Wen Mo, to seem reliable and capable.
…
And then admire him. Depend on him.
Smile at him.
Wen Mo’s smile was cute—two little pointed canines, eyes curving like crescents.
“…”
Enough. Get to work.
Pei Zeyang snapped out of the fantasy, found a tutorial, and cooked with focus he hadn’t shown since the college entrance exams—full of confidence.
Forty minutes later he opened the rice cooker.
Congee and sweet potato separated, not blended at all.
Carrots too salty.
Two saury burned black, stuck to the pot.
“…”
Fine.
He wasn’t a cooking genius.
Pei Zeyang accepted defeat calmly, dumped everything in the trash, tied the bag tight so Wen Mo wouldn’t smell it. The delivery call came; he opened the door and took the food.
Wen Mo was in the living room. Pei Zeyang opened and closed the door lightly, trying not to be noticed. Wen Mo still heard and turned—just as Pei Zeyang looked up with the bags.
“Pei Zeyang?” Wen Mo called.
“Yeah, it’s me.” Caught red-handed, Pei Zeyang sounded unnatural. “Got something. Keep watching. I’ll call you when food’s ready.”
“Okay.” Wen Mo didn’t think much of it.
Pei Zeyang went to the dining area, plated the delivery, and looked toward the living room.
Wen Mo wasn’t sitting straight anymore. He slouched in the corner of the sofa, hugging the stuffed toy from his suitcase yesterday.
Long body and limbs—the toy—Wen Mo’s slender arms around it, head tilted against it, chin on the plush, listening intently. Now and then something funny made his eyes curve; he tugged the toy’s ears.
He looked happy. Carefree.
This, Pei Zeyang thought, was Wen Mo as he should be.
His gaze stayed on Wen Mo a long while before he said: “Time to eat.”
“Coming.” Wen Mo answered at once.
He got off the sofa and reached for his cane—but touched a broad, warm palm first.
The owner pulled him up.
“Need the cane at home?” Pei Zeyang asked.
“Not really.” It had been habit. Hearing Pei Zeyang, Wen Mo got playful.
He let go and felt his way along furniture—slow steps, each steady—until his hands found the table and chair. He sat down proudly: “See!”
Pei Zeyang: “…”
Why did I ask.
“Impressive.” Pei Zeyang glanced at his own palm and praised him.
Wen Mo was delighted.
At the table Pei Zeyang had poured a bowl of congee. The warm, clean rice smell spread. Wen Mo bowed his head, breathed the steam, tasted a spoonful—thick congee, soft sweet potato, very good.
“Your cooking is so good!” Wen Mo was amazed.
Pei Zeyang cooked far better than he could—Wen Mo had only started learning recently. He praised without holding back—carrots and saury too, especially the saury: crisp outside, fresh and tender with lemon, a little sour bite.
Wen Mo loved it.
“Really delicious.” He gave Pei Zeyang a thumbs-up. “You’re amazing.”
He had planned to return the favor—when Pei Zeyang went to class Monday, cook dinner for him so he’d come home to a meal and be as happy as Wen Mo was now.
But after tasting Pei Zeyang’s cooking, he knew Pei Zeyang would never like his food.
His skill was ordinary—tutorials still failed, too much soy sauce or salt sometimes, confident improvisation gone wrong.
Ah.
Ah, what a problem.
The plan was ruined. Wen Mo sighed inside but ate happily on the surface.
It really was delicious. Pei Zeyang had even added seaweed and pork floss to the congee for flavor.
That was probably what he had fetched at the door earlier.
Wen Mo loved Pei Zeyang’s food and gave plenty of emotional payoff.
But Pei Zeyang wasn’t as happy as Wen Mo imagined.
He had pictured Wen Mo’s reaction—about like this. He wanted Wen Mo happy, admiring, praising him, thinking him reliable. But…
Seeing it now, he wasn’t as glad as he expected. Something sour blocked his chest.
Probably because Wen Mo was actually praising someone else.
He figured it out fast—jealous—and asked: “Is it that good?”
“Really good.” Wen Mo answered.
It was delicious—but he praised so hard mostly because Pei Zeyang had made it himself.
People who put in effort deserved encouragement.
He would encourage Pei Zeyang!
Pei Zeyang was the god of the kitchen!
Pei Zeyang: “…”
“If it’s good, eat more.” His face wasn’t great, but he still deboned fish for Wen Mo.
He pushed a bowl of fillets to Wen Mo’s hand.
“No need.” Wen Mo said quickly. “I can eat myself.”
“Saury barely has bones. Not much trouble.”
A pause.
Wen Mo didn’t refuse. He thanked him happily: “Just this once, okay. Thank you.”
Pei Zeyang grunted.
Wen Mo went back to eating.
“Actually today’s food wasn’t made by me.” Pei Zeyang said suddenly.
Huh?
Wen Mo stopped, stunned, not understanding.
Pei Zeyang went on: “I ordered from a restaurant.”
He told Wen Mo anyway.
“Because I can’t cook. Never have.” His tone was annoyed, clearly unwilling to lose—but soon his voice dropped, a little guilty.
Still mostly unwilling to lose.
He believed with more time he could make Wen Mo think his cooking was good.
He hated showing weakness in front of Wen Mo but had to speak.
It left him torn.
“I didn’t mean to hide it. I only remembered at the cooking step. I tried after, failed, so I had food delivered.” He told the whole story.
“Oh…” Wen Mo opened his mouth.
“Do you think I’m unreliable?” They spoke almost at once.
He didn’t want that impression—but he didn’t want to lie while Wen Mo praised someone else’s cooking.
“No.” Wen Mo thought and answered.
Pei Zeyang looked up, surprised.
Saying it himself, he sounded insane.
Fighting to cook, then admitting he couldn’t.
If it were him, he’d think it was a prank, bad faith.
His friends would too.
Wen Mo didn’t.
Wen Mo didn’t seem angry—said he didn’t find him unreliable.
“Really? I lied to you.”
Pei Zeyang always acted strange around Wen Mo. Surprised by the answer, he piled on his own crimes. Afterward his face was like he’d eaten a fly—and he had fed it to himself.
Pei Zeyang’s expression was a sight.
“Not really lying.” Wen Mo recalled—Pei Zeyang never actually said he cooked today’s meal. So not quite a lie.
None of it mattered.
Small stuff, not worth calling a lie.
Wen Mo didn’t care.
He didn’t quite get forgetting whether you could cook, but he believed Pei Zeyang didn’t mean harm.
“Next time just tell me. If you can’t cook, I can. No need to order out.”
“If you’re worried, watch me while I do it.” Wen Mo said.
“There won’t be a next time.” Pei Zeyang said at once. “I’ll learn fast.”
“Mm, I believe you!” Wen Mo encouraged him.
“Really?” Pei Zeyang looked at him. Life returned to the dark eyes under his bangs.
“Really.” Wen Mo nodded hard. “Okay, eat first.”
“I’ll practice after I finish eating.” Pei Zeyang said.
Wen Mo was about to agree when Pei Zeyang switched: “No—I’m going now.”
He didn’t even finish eating.
Wen Mo froze.
He wanted to say more, but Pei Zeyang was already up. Leaving, he told Wen Mo: “Leave the dishes on the table when you’re done. I’ll clean up soon.”
A soft thud.
The door shut.
Wen Mo: “…”
Uh.
Ah.
This…
Such drive?
Wen Mo couldn’t help marveling.