Since Evelia often practiced cooking in the kitchen, the head chef had granted her a small personal locker. Inside sat her reference cookbooks and a matching pair of aprons.
After tying on the pink cat-print apron gifted by another maid, Evelia handed Arman the coordinating deep blue one patterned with a playful puppy. Arman examined the charming men’s apron with mild amusement, watching Evelia flip earnestly through her cookbooks before slowly slipping his on.
This was a rare moment alone. In romance novels, the kitchen was a classic stage for deepening bonds—and Evelia knew it well.
Like when the heroine focused on cooking, the hero would step behind her, whisper, *“Thank you for this delicious dinner,”* and wrap his arms around her waist, nuzzling her cheek like a newlywed.
Or playful apron-only teasing—where the thin fabric hinted delicately at her form from the front, and from behind, only a slender strap remained, leaving little to the imagination.
Even the kitchen table could become the next scene: sweeping bottles aside, lifting her onto the counter, the perfect height difference inviting closeness, utensils clinking softly as passion quietly unfolded.
Truly, the kitchen was a place where almost anything could happen—except actual cooking.
It was, without doubt, the second “sacred place,” right after the bedroom.
Evelia’s gaze stayed fixed on the cookbook, but her thoughts drifted far away.
“Master… what would you like to eat?”
She blinked back to reality after a long silence.
*Patience is a virtue*, she reminded herself.
“As for food—anything’s fine except overly spicy or greasy stuff. But… Evelia, could you stop calling me ‘Master’?”
“Hm?” Evelia lifted her eyes slightly from the book. “Why?”
“Well… I just don’t like it.”
“…”
Her full attention snapped to Arman.
Thanks to that romance novel, Evelia believed a devoted maid should be sweet and fluttering, making her master’s heart skip with every word. In the story, the heroine Grelia hadn’t called him “Master” at first—only “Mister.” It was only after she accidentally used the title that the hero realized his feelings, his heart pounding at just those two syllables.
Evelia had followed the script precisely. Yet Arman showed no fluster—only a request to drop the term.
She’d even overheard a maid whisper “Master” to a knight in the garden once; the boy’s sharp inhale, flushed cheeks, and shy smile were etched in her memory.
*Would Arman ever wear that expression?*
Though she rarely joined gossip sessions, meals in the shared hall let snippets reach her: how stern knights turned into blushing kittens in love, how maidens adored that contrast.
Evelia felt like she’d tumbled into a love-struck world. Everyone seemed to be chasing romance—except her.
*…Well, not quite.*
She realized then: only two people in the manor weren’t pursuing romance. Herself… and Arman.
*How troublesome.*
Pick anyone else, and victory might come easy.
After all, rumors said Arman found a fine horse more interesting than a lady.
“If you dislike it…”
“Just call me by my name.”
Arman answered before she could finish.
“Mr. Arman.”
“Yes. That’s perfect.”
…So stiff.
A faint disappointment settled in Evelia’s chest.
Though “Master♡” had been forced—no real warmth behind it—the shift back to “Mr. Arman” felt like a step backward.
“We were just holding hands,” she murmured without thinking.
Not an accusation, but the words slipped out with the soft resentment of a teased girl.
“…Ah.”
Arman, lounging lazily on a wooden stool, froze.
Hand-in-hand wasn’t a casual gesture.
“But… wasn’t that your doing?” He turned the chair backward, arms resting on the backrest.
“Was it?” Evelia set the book down, her steady gaze making the scene look like a maiden silently scolding a careless rogue.
Truth was, she’d hooked his finger first. Then, when he mirrored the pinky promise, *she* had laced their fingers together.
“You didn’t refuse either.”
She lowered her eyes again. Arman blinked, then let out a quiet, helpless chuckle.
Both hiding their true thoughts, they let the matter drop—like mutual silence after an unexpected intimacy.
*But… why not say anything?*
Such a charged moment deserved words. Yet neither spoke.
Arman stood and walked closer.
Side by side, they studied the cookbook. Then, under hesitant glances, moved to the sink to wash hands—a necessary step before cooking, yet now charged with unspoken meaning.
Like rinsing away the memory of that accidental closeness.
Fire lit. Pot set.
Simple ingredients called for simple cooking.
After deliberation, they settled on a humble noodle soup.
Not local cuisine, but easy to make, hard to ruin, and gentle on Arman’s stomach.
Once ready, steaming noodles topped with leafy broth sat before them.
Neither mastered chopsticks well. To avoid embarrassment, forks were chosen.
*Squelch.*
“…?”
Arman glanced over. The sound came from Evelia’s ketchup packet.
Horror dawned as she squeezed a crimson stream into her clear vegetable soup. Vibrant green leaves vanished under a bloody-red swirl.
*Squelch.*
One packet wasn’t enough. She tossed the empty and squeezed a second dry.
“Something wrong, Mr. Arman?”
She caught his stare, then casually sucked the last drops from the packet like juice.
“You… really love ketchup, huh.”
“Absolutely! You should try it too.”
*Clunk.*
She slid her violently red bowl toward him. Arman flinched—the floating greens trembled with him.
“No… you enjoy it,” he said with a strained smile, gently pushing it back.
“Alright.”
She didn’t insist. She genuinely liked it; the offer had been mere courtesy.
“Evelia… you don’t… dip jiaozi in ketchup too, do you?”
“Hm?” She tilted her head mid-noodle. “Is that not allowed?”
“…”
Arman opened his mouth, closed it. Said nothing.
He simply ate his soup, surrounded by the rich, tangy scent of tomato.
