The rain had gotten heavier after sunset.

  It drummed softly against the cracked windowpane, filling the room with a steady rhythm — like the world outside had fallen away, leaving just the two of us behind.

  I was sprawled on the couch, half-dozing, when I heard her voice from the tiny kitchen corner.

  "...I wanna cook something," Ayesha said.

  I cracked an eye open.

  She stood there barefoot on the cold tiles, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, staring at the few dusty cabinets like they were locked vaults.

  I smiled sleepily.

  "You sure?" I asked, sitting up.

  She nodded, determination flickering in her golden eyes.

  "I want to," she said softly. "For you."

  My heart did that stupid thing again — that quick, traitorous skip it always did whenever she looked at me like that.

  How could I say no?

  I dragged myself up from the couch and padded over.

  Our "kitchen" was barely more than a sink, a rusty two-burner stove, and a fridge that rattled like it was possessed.

  There wasn't much to work with — a couple of dented pots, some instant noodles, a forgotten bag of rice, and a suspicious-looking packet of spices I'd bought months ago and never used.

  She opened the fridge, peered inside, and made a face.

  I laughed.

  "Welcome to my five-star restaurant," I said, waving a hand grandly.

  She giggled —

  a soft, precious sound that made the crummy kitchen feel a little less crummy.

  After a few minutes of intense cabinet-staring, she turned to me.

  "...How do you make rice?"

  I blinked.

  "You don't know how to make rice?"

  She shook her head, looking a little embarrassed.

  I grinned and leaned against the counter, crossing my arms.

  "Alright, Chef Ayesha. Lesson one."

  She squared her shoulders like she was preparing for battle.

  I tried to explain it simply:

  "Measure the rice, rinse it, add water, boil it, then let it simmer."

  She nodded very seriously.

  Then immediately grabbed the wrong pot.

  "Uh, that's the one with the broken handle," I said quickly, reaching out.

  Our hands brushed.

  She froze.

  I froze.

  For a second, we just stood there, ridiculously close, her fingers barely grazing mine.

  The air between us felt heavier — but not uncomfortable.

  More like... warm.

  Finally, she pulled her hand back, cheeks flushed.

  "S-Sorry," she mumbled.

  I coughed, trying to act normal.

  "No worries."

  (Yeah. Totally normal. Totally not about to pass out from a single accidental touch.)

  With the right pot finally chosen, we measured the rice together.

  She insisted on doing everything herself, even though I could tell she was nervous.

  I hovered close anyway, just in case.

  The first disaster struck when she tried rinsing the rice.

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  Instead of swirling it gently in the water, she stabbed at it like it owed her money.

  Rice flew everywhere — on the counter, the floor, her hair.

  She looked up at me, wide-eyed.

  I bit back a laugh.

  "Maybe... be a little gentler?"

  She nodded furiously, a few grains of rice clinging to her cheek.

  I couldn’t help it.

  I reached out and brushed them off with my thumb.

  Her skin was soft — so soft —

  and she blinked up at me, breath hitching.

  Neither of us moved for a moment too long.

  Then the faucet made a horrible gurgling noise and we both jumped.

  I stepped back, laughing under my breath.

  "You're doing great," I said.

  She pouted, clearly not convinced.

  Somehow, she managed to get the rinsed rice into the pot and the water boiling.

  I watched her hover over it anxiously, like the rice might try to escape if she looked away.

  "Now you just let it simmer," I said.

  She nodded, gripping the spoon like it was a weapon.

  We stood there side by side in the tiny kitchen, the warm light flickering overhead, the sound of rain filling the spaces between our breaths.

  It wasn’t perfect.

  It wasn’t even close.

  But it was ours.

  While the rice cooked (and miraculously didn’t burn the apartment down), she decided to "get creative" with the spices.

  I watched in silent horror as she dumped an alarming amount of random seasonings into a frying pan.

  "You sure about that combo?" I asked cautiously.

  She nodded solemnly.

  "Trust the chef."

  I had a bad feeling about this.

  Twenty minutes later, we sat cross-legged on the floor with two mismatched bowls in front of us.

  Rice that was... mostly cooked.

  Stir-fried vegetables that looked like they'd been through a small war.

  And some strange reddish sauce that smelled like someone had challenged physics itself.

  I hesitated.

  She watched me with an almost painful amount of hope in her eyes.

  I picked up my chopsticks.

  Took a bite.

  Paused.

  It was terrible.

  And somehow — the best thing I had ever tasted.

  I smiled.

  "It's perfect," I said.

  Her face lit up like the sun breaking through a storm.

  "Really?"

  "Really."

  We ate together in the warm, humming quiet.

  At some point, she leaned her head lightly against my shoulder, still chewing thoughtfully.

  I didn’t move.

  Didn’t even breathe too hard, afraid to break the moment.

  And I knew, deep down,

  I would never be the same again.

  After we finished eating, I leaned back against the wall, feeling full and weirdly... happy.

  --------------------

  Ayesha stretched her arms above her head, letting out a small yawn.

  "That was fun," she said.

  Her hair was a mess, there was rice stuck to her sleeve, and the hem of her sweater was damp from who-knows-what...

  but she looked like she had just won a gold medal.

  I chuckled.

  "Yeah. You're officially a chef now."

  She gave me a tiny smug smile — then turned to look at the disaster zone that used to be my kitchen.

  The counters were splattered with sauce, the sink was filled with cloudy water, and somehow, a spoon was stuck to the ceiling.

  (I decided not to ask.)

  "...We should clean up," she said brightly.

  I groaned and let my head thump back against the wall.

  "Or we could just burn it all down and start over."

  She giggled —

  that small, clear sound I was starting to crave without even realizing it.

  "No way," she said, grabbing a dish towel. "Come on."

  And just like that, we were cleaning.

  Or trying to.

  I washed the dishes while she dried them, which quickly turned into an unspoken war.

  Every time I handed her a wet plate, she would "accidentally" flick water at me.

  At first, I ignored it.

  Then she did it again, this time hitting me square in the face.

  I looked at her slowly, wiping water from my eye.

  She was trying very, very hard not to laugh.

  "You realize this means war," I said solemnly.

  She dropped the dish towel and bolted, laughing outright.

  I grabbed the sprayer from the sink and fired after her, sending a jet of water across the kitchen.

  She shrieked and ducked behind the fridge.

  "Unfair!" she shouted, giggling uncontrollably.

  "You started it," I called back.

  I stalked forward carefully, sprayer ready.

  She peeked out, eyes sparkling with mischief.

  "Truce?"

  "Not a chance."

  In the chaos, she slipped — socks sliding on the wet tiles — and bumped into the counter.

  "Careful—!" I said, rushing over.

  She clutched the edge, laughing breathlessly.

  "I'm okay," she said between giggles.

  I grabbed her shoulders to steady her.

  For a second, we were nose to nose, breathing hard, soaked and messy and laughing like idiots.

  The moment stretched —

  warm and fragile and too precious to move.

  Then she sneezed.

  A tiny, ridiculous sneeze.

  I burst out laughing.

  "Alright, alright, time out. You’re gonna catch a cold like this."

  She nodded, sniffling.

  "I'll go change!" she said, grabbing the shopping bag from earlier.

  She practically skipped off toward the bathroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind her.

  While she changed, I finished wiping down the counter, still smiling to myself like an idiot.

  It felt so easy with her.

  Even simple things like cleaning dishes, fighting over dish towels, getting soaked —

  they felt like memories I'd want to keep forever.

  When she came back, she was wearing a fresh hoodie and sweatpants from the stuff she bought earlier.

  The hoodie was way too big on her — probably a men's size — and it swallowed her small frame completely.

  She looked impossibly soft, her hair damp and messy, sleeves falling over her hands.

  "Better?" I asked.

  She nodded, tugging at the hem shyly.

  "You look..."

  I caught myself before I said something dumb.

  "...warm," I finished lamely.

  She smiled.

  That slow, heart-stealing smile that made everything else fade out.

  We finished cleaning together, this time without a water war.

  Mostly.

  (Okay, maybe one more flick. But just a small one.)

  By the time we were done, the kitchen looked halfway decent again, and the rain outside had softened into a misty drizzle.

  She flopped down onto the couch, hair still a little damp.

  I sat beside her, careful not to get too close.

  (And failing. Somehow our knees brushed anyway.)

  There was a small silence, filled only by the sound of rain and our breathing.

  Then, very quietly, she said:

  "I'm happy here."

  I turned my head.

  She was staring at the ceiling, hands folded over her stomach, a soft little smile playing on her lips.

  Like she hadn't even meant to say it out loud.

  But she had.

  And something about hearing it —

  hearing her say it —

  made my chest ache in the best way.

  I didn't know what to say back.

  So I just leaned my head back too, closed my eyes, and let the feeling settle between us.

  Outside, the rain kept falling.

  Inside, for the first time in a long time —

  I didn’t feel lonely anymore.

  I looked down at her, the girl who had crashed into my life with nothing but a hoodie and her innocence.