CHAPTER 21: SWEET LESSON

By the time Ariana and I unpacked the groceries, the sun had already set.

I glanced at the clock.

[6:30]

Soft light filtered through the window, mixing with the pale blue glow of the mana lantern hanging above the kitchen counter.

She stood stiffly beside me, hands clasped in front of her, posture straight as a knight facing an evaluation.

I rolled up my sleeves and clapped my hands.

"Alright, Student Solmere. Tonight’s lesson — cheesecake."

Her eyes widened. "C-Cheesecake?!"

"Yup. A dish so divine, it can make anyone question their life choices."

She blinked, confusion written all over her face. "C-Cheese... cake?"

"Exactly as it sounds," I said, smirking. "A cake made of cheese."

Her lips parted. "Cheese? That... doesn’t sound edible."

"Oh, trust me," I chuckled, "it’s more than edible — it’s enlightenment in dessert form."

*****

We laid out everything on the counter — eggs, flour, sugar, and a bottle of fresh milk.

Ariana hovered nearby, eyes wide and attentive, as if I were about to perform alchemy instead of cooking.

"First," I began, "we make the base — soft cheese. Watch closely."

I poured the milk into a pot and lit the burner beneath it. A soft blue flame flickered to life, warming the kitchen.

The smell of fresh milk slowly filled the air.

"When it starts to ripple," I said, "we’ll add vinegar. That’s what separates the curds — the good part — from the whey."

"V-Vinegar? Won’t that spoil it?" she asked nervously.

"Technically, yes. But sometimes you have to ruin something to make it better."

"...That sounds philosophical."

"It’s cooking," I said, smirking. "Everything in cooking is philosophy if you sound confident enough."

As the milk began to tremble with tiny bubbles, I poured in the vinegar. The mixture curdled instantly, the white solids forming and rising as the liquid turned translucent.

Ariana gasped softly. "I-It changed! Just like that!"

"Welcome to the miracle of transformation," I said lightly. "Now grab that cloth — you’re up."

"M-Me?!"

"Yes, you. We’re making this together. Hold it steady and pour."

She hesitated, then bit her lip and carefully followed my instructions. The warm mixture poured through the cloth, and she flinched slightly at the heat.

"Don’t worry," I said, stepping closer. "Like this — gentle but firm."

I moved behind her, guiding her hands. Her breath hitched as our fingers brushed.

The faint scent of milk and sugar mixed with the quiet sound of dripping whey.

"There you go," I said softly, close enough that she could hear the calm in my tone. "Perfect."

Her face flushed pink. "...Y-Yes, teacher."

When the curds were ready, I transferred them to a bowl. "Now for the fun part."

"F-Fun?"

"Yeah — mixing." I handed her a wooden spoon. "Sugar, egg yolks, a little bit of flour. Mix until smooth."

She nodded and began to stir. The spoon moved awkwardly at first, her movements stiff and hesitant.

"Relax your grip," I said. "You’re beating the mixture, not starting a duel."

"I-I’m trying," she mumbled, concentrating. "It’s just... harder than it looks."

I watched her struggle for a bit, amused, then stepped closer again.

"Here," I said, covering her hands with mine. "Don’t fight the spoon. Move with it."

Her breath caught, and for a brief second, time seemed to slow.

Her hands softened, following the rhythm I guided — smooth circles, steady and even.

The mixture began to turn creamy and glossy.

"See?" I said quietly. "Cooking isn’t about force. It’s about rhythm."

Her lips parted, her voice barely above a whisper. "R-Rhythm..."

"Exactly. Feel it, don’t fight it."

When she finally took over on her own, her movements flowed naturally.

She smiled faintly — the first genuine smile I’d seen on her without hesitation.

"...I did it," she said softly.

"You did," I replied. "And it looks perfect."

Her cheeks reddened slightly under my praise.

*****

I poured the mixture into a small tin lined with a crust we’d made earlier.

As it slid into the oven, the scent of warm sweetness began to spread — butter, milk, sugar, and something else intangible... like comfort.

Ariana stood beside me, her violet eyes fixed on the faint golden glow through the oven glass.

"Cooking feels... warm," she said quietly. "It’s simple, but... it makes me feel like I belong somewhere."

I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her expression soften in the amber light.

"That’s what food does," I said. "It doesn’t just fill your stomach. It gives you a reason to smile again."

She turned to me, blinking. "Do you... always talk like that?"

I smirked. "Only when I’m about to impress someone with dessert."

Her laugh came unexpectedly — soft, airy, and genuine.

The sound filled the small kitchen, mingling with the smell of baking cheesecake.

And as I glanced at her — cheeks glowing from the oven’s light, hair framing her gentle smile — I couldn’t help but think...

Yeah. This might’ve been the best lesson yet.