“This pot…” Li Xiangwei frowned as she took in the makeshift kitchen, worry creasing her brows.
“How are we supposed to cook with that?” Xiang Zhou asked, as if their thoughts were aligned.
Li Xiangwei shifted her gaze awkwardly and refused to meet his eye.
Wen Yin casually swept her loose hair up, scanned the scattered ingredients, and said, “I’ll do the cooking. The three of you can be my helpers, okay?”
Li Xiangwei’s helpless expression already betrayed that she couldn’t cook. As for Xiang Zhou…
Wen Yin’s eyes settled on Xiang Zhou, who was still staring at the old black pot with open curiosity. There was something clear and almost naïve in him.
The stream chat flared up at once, mocking and anxious all at once: “Wait—she can cook? What did she say just now?” “I remember her on that food show—what she brought out looked like a black puddle.” “Oh no, my Nannan—what if Wen Yin ruins his food?” “Not impossible,” “Please don’t perform, Wen Yin, we all know how she cooks…”
Before anyone could respond, Wen Zhi piped up, smiling sweetly but with a sharp edge in her eyes. “Oh? Wen Yin, you cook? Why didn’t you say earlier?”
Wen Yin didn’t so much as glance at her. “I hadn’t had the chance to say anything before you split up into teams,” she replied evenly.
That one line shut Wen Zhi up. Lu Ziqiu watched Wen Yin with a complicated expression.
Wen Yin kept her head bowed; stray strands of hair fell to just enough to veil her face, leaving only those dark eyes flickering through. Lu’s pupils stilled.
He noticed the faint redness at the corner of her eyes. Even as she moved about, chopping and sorting, the small telltale color betrayed that she had been hurt. Something soft inside him pinched, sour and tight.
“Ziqiu?” Wen Zhi’s breathy voice pulled him back; he glanced away.
Wen Yin suppressed a yawn. Moisture gathered in her eyes, making them shimmer; the corners reddened. Up close it read as a quiet, pitiful grievance.
“I can help.” Shao Yinan, standing to one side, had noticed the fatigue clinging to Wen Yin and stepped forward.
Wen Yin didn’t refuse theatrically—she handed him a bundle of vegetables.
By the sink, Xiang Zhou lifted just one eyelid; the complicated look in his eyes was quickly smoothed over and pushed down. He hadn’t forgotten what Shao Yinan had told him a few days ago… the memory hovered behind his calm.
“Wen, do you need anything else?” Shao asked.
Li Xiangwei had just finished rinsing a carrot; droplets clung to her long fingers, and the live chat promptly melted into a chorus of fangirls. Wen Yin plopped a still-flopping fish onto the cutting board and looked up. “Shall we gut the fish?”
“You scared?” she asked, checking for anyone who might faint at the sight of blood.
Li Xiangwei glanced at Xiang Zhou, who had grabbed most of the vegetables into his basin. “Not scared,” she said, admiring the boldness. On variety shows, even washing vegetables is enough to earn praise—here Wen Yin was taking charge and about to kill a fish.
Shao Yinan was about to step over when Wen Yin coolly braced the fish and struck. The crowd watching online went wild: “Is this really the Wen Yin who can’t cook?” “I saw that show too—I don’t trust her at all, but that was a slick move.” “If she manages to make something edible, that’s rarer than my love life.”
Jiang Shihuai watched with a more complicated feeling. He remembered the first time Wen Yin had watched him kill a fish—she’d been shy and clung to his sleeve like a little bird. “Shihuai, I’m scared,” Wen Yin had said then.
A steady gaze from his left pricked at Wen Yin now. She turned and met Jiang’s eyes; he was staring fixedly at the fish on the board. For a beat they both flashed back to the old memory.
Jiang blinked and found Wen Yin smiling at him—bright, lips curving, the strands of hair hanging over her ear lending a sudden playfulness. She brought the knife down.
The fish head came off in one decisive cut. A small chill crawled up Jiang’s neck.
Both teams’ dinners got under way in a flurry. Wen Zhi’s side was flustered—missing scallions, too much ginger, and thanks to Qian Shuzhi’s overeager stoking of the fire, one dish went scorched. Wen Yin’s side, by contrast, moved with steady hands: setting the fire, stirring the wok, even tossing the spatula in a neat flourish.
The chat reacted in real time: “Okay, Wen Yin not being dramatic is actually kind of great.” “A woman who can toss a wok is cool as hell!” “Wen Yin stans, contain yourselves.”
Shao Yinan sat on a low stool behind Wen Yin, a small, somewhat comical figure, diligently peeling garlic because she had asked him to.
A shadow suddenly fell over them as someone crouched down; a wisp of hair slipped over her forehead. The sharp perfume she wore collided with the smoky reek of the stove.
“Yinan, want me to help?” Qian Shuzhi smiled sweetly as she drew close.
Shao Yinan shifted back, putting a little distance between them. “No, thank you. Is your team’s food ready?” he asked, cool and polite—reminding her that they weren’t on the same team.
Qian’s cheeks flushed at that. Her culinary skills were practically nil: she’d poured half a pot of oil aimlessly at first and later, in following Xiao Mo, had added so much fuel that Jiang Shihuai’s dish burned. Things were awkward.
“Then they don’t need me. I’ll help you—someone has to be useful,” Qian said, reaching for the garlic, trying to seize the opportunity she’d been angling for.
The stream chat erupted again—half amused, half accusing: “Can’t you see that Qian’s just making a move?” “She jumped teams so fast; now she plays the buddy act—classic.”
Before Shao Yinan could refuse, a sharp, unexpected sound cracked through the kitchen—
“Bang—”