A few days after Brent returned to Singapore, life gradually slipped back into its usual rhythm for Flynn and Dylan. Their routines became familiar again-classes during the day, and afterwards, Dylan would spend time teaching Flynn how to drive his new car.
"You're almost there," Dylan said as he steered the car toward home. "Soon, you'll know how to drive properly."
"Thanks for teaching me," Flynn replied. "But I don't think I'll use a car that much anyway. We ride the scooter to school most days."
"This isn't just for school," Dylan said. "We won't always be together. It's better if you have your own car, so you won't have to wait for me whenever we go separate ways."
Flynn nodded, accepting the logic behind Dylan's words.
"Let's stop by a restaurant first," Flynn said after a moment. "I'm starving."
"We're not eating out," Dylan replied.
"What do you mean, not eating out?"
"Almost every day it's either a restaurant or delivery," Dylan said. "So tonight, I decided I'll cook."
"You're going to waste food again," Flynn muttered.
Aside from practicing driving, Dylan had recently taken an interest in cooking again. Some of his attempts were barely edible, but little by little, he was learning.
"So what are you making this time?" Flynn asked cautiously.
"Noodles."
"That's still noodles. We could've just bought some."
"But these aren't ordinary noodles," Dylan said. "I'm making them myself-from scratch."
"Dylan-"
"Nope," Dylan cut in before Flynn could finish. "No complaints. Don't worry, I'm confident about this one."
Flynn could only sigh. Just thinking about the possible outcome of Dylan's cooking made him feel even hungrier. He had no idea whether what Dylan would make later would be edible-or something he'd have to quietly throw away.
They stopped by a supermarket to buy the ingredients Dylan needed. Flynn, meanwhile, filled his basket with snacks-just in case Dylan's experiment failed.
Once they had everything, they headed straight back to the apartment.
As soon as they arrived, Dylan wasted no time and went straight to the kitchen to begin cooking. Flynn, on the other hand, went to the living room, turned on the television, and waited.
Dylan stood in the kitchen, staring at the bowl of flour on the counter. For a moment, he closed his eyes and tried to remember the way Aunt Mary used to do it-how her hands moved without hesitation, how she always said the dough would tell him when it was ready.
"Flour first... then egg... then water," he murmured, repeating her words like a spell.
He cracked an egg into the well he made in the flour. The yolk slipped sideways instead of staying neatly in the center, and he frowned, quickly adding water before it could escape completely. His fingers worked awkwardly through the mixture, sticky at first, then stubbornly dry. He added more flour, then more water, unsure which problem he was fixing anymore.
The dough finally came together into something he could knead.
He pressed it down with the heel of his palm, folded it, pressed again. It wasn't graceful, but it was steady. He covered it with a towel and let it rest.
When he rolled it out, the dough stretched into a long, pale sheet across the counter. He cut the first half into long, thin strips, uneven but recognizable as pasta. Some were thicker than others, but he laid them out carefully and dusted them with flour so they wouldn't stick.
From the rest of the sheet, he cut small squares.
"These are for the dumplings," he told the empty kitchen, as if announcing something important.
Next came the filling.
He mixed ground pork, chopped shrimp, garlic, onion, salt, and pepper in a bowl. The smell alone made him pause.
"This part, I remember," he said softly.
He placed small spoonfuls of filling in the center of each square and folded them into little parcels. Some sealed properly. Some looked like they had been folded in a hurry. He fixed what he could and left the rest as they were.
That was when Flynn appeared at the doorway.
"...Do you need help?" Flynn asked, eyes drifting from the flour-dusted counter to Dylan's hands.
Dylan glanced up, slightly startled. "No. It's okay. I can handle it."
Flynn stepped closer. "You sure?"
"I'm fine," Dylan said, already turning back to the wrappers. "Just... wait for a bit, okay?"
Flynn hesitated, watching as Dylan carefully pressed the edges of another dumpling together. His movements were messy but focused, his expression serious.
"...Alright," Flynn said at last. "I'll just wait."
And he left Dylan to it.
For the soup, Dylan heated a bit of oil in the pot. He tossed in the chopped onion and minced garlic, stirring them until fragrant and lightly golden. The aroma filled the kitchen, warm and inviting, and gave him a small boost of confidence.
Next, he added the chicken pieces, stirring them into the onion and garlic. The chicken sizzled, slowly turning golden brown, edges crisping slightly as he moved them around. The scent deepened, rich and savory, making the kitchen feel alive.
Once the chicken was nicely browned, he poured in water, letting it bubble and steam. He skimmed the foam clumsily, almost splashing himself once, but managed to keep going.
He lowered the dumplings into the simmering soup.
They sank, disappeared for a moment, then slowly rose to the surface as if deciding they were ready to exist.
Next came the noodles-his long, uneven strips sliding into the broth, softening and curling as they cooked.
Dylan took a breath before the final step.
He cracked an egg directly into the pot. The yolk broke and spread, and as he stirred gently, thin white strands bloomed through the soup like pale ribbons drifting in golden liquid.
It looked... right.
Not perfect.
But right.
He tasted it.
The dumplings were tender, the filling savory. The noodles had a handmade chew to them. The egg softened the broth, and the chicken gave it depth-simple, warm, and unmistakably Pancit Molo.
Dylan let out a slow breath.
"...Aunt Mary would say this is acceptable," he said.
The kitchen was still chaotic-flour on the counter, wrappers stuck to a plate, one dumpling barely holding together-but the pot of soup was steady and steaming.
After cleaning up the kitchen, Dylan began setting the table with what he had cooked. Once everything was ready, he called out to Flynn.
When Flynn reached the dining table, the food was already laid out. Dylan pulled out a chair for him and guided him into it, almost like a host serving an honored guest. He was clearly excited-he wanted to see Flynn taste what he had made.
Dylan ladled a serving of pancit molo into a bowl and placed it in front of Flynn. Steam rose from the soup, carrying its warmth into the air. Flynn leaned closer and breathed in the scent. His eyes closed for a moment, surprised by how fragrant it was. The smell alone made his stomach tighten with hunger, but he steadied himself. He didn't want to decide anything until he had actually tasted it.
"Careful," Dylan said. "It's still really hot. You might burn yourself."
Flynn gently stirred the soup in his bowl. He noticed that the handmade molo noodles were uneven-some thick, some thin-and that a few of the dumplings had split open. He scooped up a spoonful of broth, blew on it lightly, and finally tasted it.
His face showed no reaction.
Next, he tried the noodles. They were cut wide, some pieces thicker than others. He used his spoon to break them into smaller bites before eating them properly. Dylan watched him closely as he chewed.
Then Flynn picked up one of the dumplings. The wrapper was nearly torn apart, but he ate it anyway. Still, his expression didn't change.
Dylan couldn't stand the silence any longer.
"So... is it okay?" he asked.
"I-it's edible," Flynn said at last, chewing on the dumpling.
Despite his words, Flynn couldn't deny that Dylan had cooked it properly this time. It wasn't as good as Mary's cooking, but for someone who had only just started learning, it was more than acceptable. Without realizing it, he had already eaten more than half of his bowl.
The happiness on Dylan's face was unmistakable as he watched Flynn eat with such appetite. Even if Flynn refused to say it out loud, Dylan knew-
he liked it.
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[Author's Note:
Pancit Molo is a traditional Filipino soup that originated in Iloilo City. It is made of dumplings filled with seasoned meat and served in a light, savory broth.
There are many versions of Pancit Molo. Some use only dumplings, while others add noodles or crack an egg into the soup for extra richness. The version cooked by Dylan in this story is based on my personal favorite version, which is why I chose to use it in the story.]