Jay's POV
I woke up staring at a ceiling that was not mine.
For three whole seconds, I questioned reality.
Why was the light fixture shaped like that?
Why did the curtains look richer than my entire life?
Why did the blanket smell like Ciel's dramatic vanilla perfume?
I sat up slowly.
Oh.
Ciel's room.
Right.
Memory floated back gently, not like a punch, not like a storm. Just… calm. Doctor Luke. His voice. The snap of his fingers.
My body felt lighter.
Strangely peaceful.
And then—
SIZZLE.
CLANG.
"Why is it jumping?!" Chantelle's voice screeched from somewhere nearby.
I blinked.
What in the culinary emergency unit was happening?
I got off the bed and stepped out quietly.
The smell hit me first.
Something between "homemade comfort" and "call the fire department."
I turned the corner toward the kitchen.
And froze.
Ciel and Chantelle were in full chaos mode.
Flour on the counter.
Oil popping like fireworks.
An onion sitting half-chopped like it gave up halfway through life.
Chantelle held a spatula like it was a weapon. Ciel was leaning dangerously close to a pan of violently bubbling oil.
I said nothing.
I just stood there.
Watching.
It was the funniest thing I had seen in weeks.
Ciel tried to remove a piece of chicken from the oil.
She leaned in.
The oil popped.
She jumped back.
Then leaned in again.
The chicken slipped from her grip and splashed oil.
She gasped dramatically and did a small hop.
I lost it.
A full laugh escaped me.
Not a small giggle.
A real one.
They both froze mid-movement.
Slowly turned.
"JAY?!" they screamed in sync.
Chantelle nearly dropped the spatula.
"When did you wake up?!" Ciel demanded.
"Long enough," I said, trying to breathe through my laughter.
Chantelle rushed over and hugged me so tight I almost re-entered unconsciousness.
"You're okay?!" she asked.
"I'm okay."
And I meant it.
"So," I said, looking past them into the battlefield formerly known as a kitchen. "What are you doing?"
Ciel straightened proudly. "Cooking."
"…Are you sure?"
"Yes," she said confidently.
"Very sure," Chantelle added, nodding with flour on her cheek.
I crossed my arms. "Is it ready?"
Ciel looked at Chantelle.
Chantelle looked at Ciel.
"Yes," Ciel said boldly.
Chantelle brought a plate to the table like she was presenting a five-star masterpiece.
Fried rice.
Chicken.
It actually looked good.
Golden rice. Nicely browned chicken.
I raised an eyebrow.
"You made this?"
"Yes," they said together.
Impressive.
I sat down.
They watched me like judges on a cooking show.
I took a spoonful of rice.
Chewed.
…
My soul left my body.
The salt.
The spice.
The chaos.
It attacked from all directions.
My eyes watered instantly.
I stood up calmly.
Walked to the sink.
And spat it out.
Behind me, Chantelle gasped.
"Is it bad?!" she asked, horrified.
I wiped my mouth and turned slowly.
"Try it."
She hesitated.
Ciel took a bold spoonful.
Chewed.
Her expression shifted through five stages of regret.
"…It's flavorful," she said weakly.
"That is not flavor," I replied. "That is war."
Chantelle tried it too.
Immediate coughing.
"Why does it hurt?!" she cried.
I decided to try the chicken instead.
Maybe redemption lived there.
I bit into it.
Chewed.
Pause.
"…Water," I croaked.
"WHAT?" Ciel panicked.
"Water. Now."
Chantelle shoved a glass into my hand.
I drank like I had crossed a desert.
"How did you steam this chicken?" I demanded once my tongue recovered.
"We followed the video!" Chantelle defended.
"They added pepper!" Ciel added proudly.
"Show me."
They pulled up the video.
I watched carefully.
Paused it.
Zoomed in.
Then I sighed.
"That's not pepper."
They blinked.
"That's spices," I said. "Multiple spices. All of them."
Silence.
"You put… all of it?" I asked slowly.
Ciel hesitated. "She said to add some."
"How much is some?" I asked.
Chantelle held up her fingers. "Like… that much?"
"That's not some. That's a declaration of violence."
They both started arguing immediately.
"You told me to pour it!"
"You said more flavor!"
"You were the one holding the spoon!"
I leaned back in my chair and watch the show.
Finally, I held up a hand.
"Okay. New plan."
"What?" they asked.
"We call Andy."
They both gasped like I suggested summoning a culinary god.
We called him.
Miraculously, he agreed to come.
Probably because he heard the desperation in our voices.
So we waited.
We turned on the TV.
Sat on the couch.
Ciel still smelled like oil.
Chantelle still had onion tears drying on her face.
I felt… happy.
Just sitting there with them.
No fear.
No heavy thoughts.
Just noise.
A knock came later.
Andy walked in.
He took one look at the kitchen.
Then at us.
Then at the food.
And burst out laughing.
"I leave you three alone for one day," he said, wiping tears from his eyes.
"It looked good!" Chantelle protested.
"It tasted like revenge," I added.
Andy rolled up his sleeves.
"Move. All of you."
We followed him into the kitchen like obedient assistants.
He started cooking properly.
Calmly.
Measured.
Explaining things.
"Salt is not emotion," he said wisely. "You don't dump it in when stressed."
We helped.
Chopped vegetables.
Stirred rice.
Seasoned carefully this time.
The smell slowly transformed from tragedy to triumph.
After two hours of what felt like kitchen rehabilitation, the food was done.
We sat at the table again.
Andy watched nervously as I took the first bite.
I chewed.
Paused.
Then smiled.
"This," I said, "is food."
Ciel clapped.
Chantelle almost cried again.
We ate properly this time.
Laughing.
Talking about everything.
About school.
About Section E.
About what we've done.
About what we still have to do.
It wasn't heavy.
It wasn't dark.
Just conversation flowing like we hadn't almost burned the apartment down earlier.
At one point, I looked at them.
Really looked.
And felt something warm settle in my chest.
Maybe healing doesn't always look dramatic.
Maybe sometimes it's burnt rice, wrong spices, and friends who try anyway.
And honestly?
I wouldn't trade this mess for anything. 🍚🔥💛
End of Chapter