Morning Mischief
Hei Long woke to the smell of something suspiciously sweet and the sound of pans colliding in a rhythm that could not, under any circumstances, be called cooking. He opened his eyes to find Zhu standing by his bedside, holding a wooden spoon like a spear.
"Up," she ordered. "The pancakes are attacking."
He arched a brow. "Or the cooks?"
She grinned. "Same thing."
By the time he entered the kitchen, the war had already begun. Yexin, hair unbound, was dusted in flour from head to toe like a ghost caught mid-festival. She wielded a sifter like a weapon, shaking white clouds into Yuran's carefully measured bowls.
"Sabotage!" Yuran snapped, moving with surgeon's precision to shield her batter from contamination. Her apron was immaculate—until a sudden puff of flour from Yexin landed squarely across her chest. She exhaled through her nose and calmly reached for another bowl. "You will regret that."
