Chapter 31 - Parallel Lines

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Serg sighed, staring at the completely empty fridge and the cupboards, devoid even of a single bowl. Turning back to the ever-composed Vito, he offered an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid I won't make it in time for lunch and your master's rest period in three hours."

 

Shuai Zhaomin had once taught him a Chinese proverb: Even the cleverest housewife cannot cook without rice.

 

Serg never thought he'd actually find himself in such a situation—standing in a kitchen that had everything except anything useful. The place was stocked like a showroom, not a home.

 

Polished marble countertops gleamed under the lights. A four-door fridge stood beside a top-of-the-line oven, a microwave, a food processor—every modern kitchen appliance imaginable.

 

Except for a single damn pot.

 

"Is there a problem?" Vito, showing no intention of returning to work, bit into a chocolate bar and blinked at him innocently.

 

He really did remind Serg of a dog he used to have. Same energy, same personality—pretending not to understand, eyes wide and bright with feigned ignorance.

 

And the worst part? Serg always fell for it.

 

"It's simple," Serg said with a helpless smile. "Without cooking utensils or ingredients, I can't prepare anything."

 

"Oh." Vito scratched his head before springing up from his chair, half-walking, half-skipping toward the refrigerator. Throwing the doors open, he began rummaging through its sparse contents.

 

"Ah! There's some cheese… and a jar of oil-cured black olives. What's this? Oh, purple cabbage!"

 

As he pulled each item out, Serg hesitated. He was fairly certain these were, for all intents and purposes, kitchen waste.

 

The cheese was reduced to scattered crumbs, the jar of olives contained nothing but oil and a single sad olive, and as for the purple cabbage—only the core remained. And worse, it had clearly been bitten into.

 

Serg suddenly understood why Taotie had offered to trade for his cooking skills. There was no way Vito would be the one gnawing on a cabbage core. That honor, no doubt, belonged to Taotie himself. And given how carefully the core had been wrapped up in a bag, it was likely one of his prized snacks.

 

For a country that prided itself on its culinary traditions, this refrigerator filled Serg with a quiet, unspeakable sorrow.

 

"There are plenty of drinks, though," Vito announced proudly, hoisting up a six-pack of beer and winking at Serg.

 

"Mr. Serg, would you care for a bottle? This is from the Brelini family brewery. Personally, I think it's better than German dark beer."

 

"My apologies, but I don't drink alcohol."

 

"Beer counts as alcohol?" Vito deftly popped the cap off a bottle by hooking it against his belt and took a swig.

 

"What about wine? The master is a vegetarian, but he has a bit of a drinking problem."

 

"Drinking problem?" That man? The one who exuded an eerie calmness, yet carried a razor-sharp presence? He had always struck Serg as someone disciplined, structured—someone who lived a simple but rigorous life. Aside from his apparent love of food, Serg hadn't found a single negative trait to pin on him.

 

After all, being overwhelmingly dominant wasn't exactly a flaw.

 

"Yeah. The master says his bloodstream is made of tequila." Vito let out a satisfied ha! after another swig, wiping the foam from his lips before grinning mischievously.

 

"So, Mr. Serg, what do you think we can make with these three ingredients?"

 

Uh…

 

For the first time, Serg found himself wishing he had Shuai Zhaomin's bluntness. His gaze dropped to the sad excuse for ingredients on the table, and he couldn't stop fixating on the bite marks on that cabbage core.

 

"Would it be possible to go out for groceries? Or have someone deliver food?"

 

Everyone in his circle enjoyed well-prepared meals—partly because Serg couldn't stand the idea of people neglecting something as essential as eating. In fact, the very reason he had opened his restaurant within a fifteen-minute walk from Shuai Zhaomin's home was precisely this—so that a certain someone wouldn't go hungry.

 

The praise of someone you love… there was no greater joy than hearing them compliment your cooking.

 

A dull ache throbbed in his chest. Serg instinctively pressed a hand against it. When he looked up again, Vito's bright blue eyes were studying him with open curiosity, making him shift uncomfortably.

 

"I'll have someone bring what you need," Vito offered tactfully, without prying.

 

Serg let out a small breath of relief, though the faint flush on his face hadn't yet faded.

 

"Do you have paper and a pen? I suspect I'll need quite a few things…" Pots, knives, dishware—and, frankly, he wanted to stock the fridge properly. The emptiness of it was just… sad.

 

"One moment."

 

With a casual thud, Vito shut the refrigerator, humming a tune as he sauntered off with his beer.

 

He returned not long after, the bottle still in hand, along with a pen and notepad. "The master wanted me to relay a message," he said. "He has little interest in celery, carrots, or mushrooms."

 

A picky eater, huh?

 

Serg couldn't help but chuckle. He had met plenty of people with food preferences before. At first, they'd politely mention one or two dislikes. But over time, the list would grow longer and longer. He was curious to see what else Taotie would absolutely refuse to eat.

 

"Understood," he replied with amusement. "I'll avoid using those three ingredients as much as possible."

 

Shuai Zhaomin, on the other hand, would eat just about anything. But when he was in a bad mood or exhausted, he'd suddenly become stubbornly selective. That small, fleeting display of selfishness… it had always made Serg feel strangely proud.

 

Why did his thoughts keep circling back to Shuai Zhaomin?

 

His fingers tightened around the pen. He had barely written down two or three ingredients, and yet—all of them were things Shuai Zhaomin liked.

 

How long does it take to forget love?

 

Serg didn't know the answer. No one did.

 

When you've placed someone in a position no one else can replace… how do you learn to let go?

 

Would there be regret? Would there be pain? Would there ever be—

 

"Serg?"

 

Vito's energetic voice was unusually cautious, carrying a hint of concern. Snapped out of his trance, Serg lifted his head, belatedly realizing he had been absently doodling geometric shapes on the paper.

 

"My apologies… If it's not too much trouble, may I borrow a phone?" Would the suppliers he knew even deliver here? "And… would it be alright if I shared this location with some of my suppliers?"

 

"Of course. One moment."

 

If he was going to do this, he needed to keep his mind clear.

 

There was no point in dwelling on the past. At the very least, they were still friends.

 

His one and only friend.

 

"Where's Vito?"

 

"...Mr. Taotie?"

 

Serg startled at the unexpected question, instinctively taking two steps back to create distance.

 

The man standing in the doorway held a beer bottle in one hand, condensation and froth clinging to his lips before he wiped them away with the back of his hand. He put on a short-sleeved shirt over his sweaty thin T-shirt—probably to guard against the wind.

 

"He said you needed a lot of things."

 

Those silver-gray eyes swept slowly across the kitchen before settling on Serg. Their excessive calmness was unnerving.

 

"Yes… the fridge is… a little empty."

 

That was an understatement. It was practically bare.

 

"Is that so?"

 

Taotie nodded faintly, as if the matter barely concerned him. Tilting his head back, he took a deep swig of beer, then leaned lazily against the doorframe, looking almost drowsy.

 

"Mr. Serg, do you know how to make chocolate pie?"

 

"...I do. What kind of chocolate pie would you like?"

 

So he just wanted to request some food? For a man whose mere presence made it hard to breathe, this demand felt unexpectedly… endearing.

 

"Hmm…"

 

Tengshe's refined brows knitted together slightly as he considered.

 

"Black cherry liqueur chocolate pie!"

 

Vito's voice rang out as he returned, phone in hand, his blue eyes shining as brightly as the sun.

 

"No."

 

The single word from Taotie carried a weight that pressed down on the air. His gray gaze flicked to Vito before returning to Serg.

 

"Crushed nuts and black chestnut liqueur chocolate pie."

 

"Then I'll make both."

 

Vito, who had been sulking a moment ago, instantly cheered, jumping up in delight.

 

Serg had a strong suspicion that despite their smooth teamwork, these two would eventually fall out over desserts.

 

"Mr. Serg, here you go!"

 

Vito practically sang as he handed over the phone, then shot his master a smug grin.

 

Taotie fell silent for a few seconds before giving his verdict.

 

"Scoundrel."

 

"Master, you can't say that!" Vito huffed, shaking his head vigorously, causing his brown hair to fly about. Serg nearly reached out to ruffle it.

 

"I've exercised patience for long enough! American desserts are nothing but sugar!"

 

"Traitor."

 

Taotie's tone remained as indifferent as ever.

 

"Master, I would never betray you over a chocolate pie."

 

Vito put on a pained expression, dramatically defending himself—though he didn't quite sink to Shakespearean theatrics, his performance was solid.

 

"Now, if it were a chiffon cake, I wouldn't even argue if you suspected me."

 

Serg had just connected the call when he accidentally let out a snort of laughter. His face instantly flushed, betraying his amusement.

 

"Glutton."

 

Taotie was as impassive as ever, those gray eyes fixed unwaveringly on Serg.

 

The intensity of his gaze made Serg so uncomfortable that he nearly fumbled his words.

 

"Master, Mr. Serg isn't for eating."

 

…Was that supposed to be a pun?

 

Serg looked between the two, momentarily forgetting he was in the middle of a phone call. A slow heat crept up his cheeks, his long, lowered lashes quivering faintly as golden sunlight fractured around them.

 

"Sorry… Is there something on my face?" Covering the phone's receiver, Serg realized his voice was trembling—not from fear, but from an emotion he couldn't quite decipher.

 

"No."

 

Taotie tossed his empty beer bottle to Vito, who caught it deftly with a smirk before slipping away, leaving his master to take a few steps forward.

 

"Uh… Mr. Taotie, I was just in the middle of— Do you need something?"

 

The grocer on the other end of the line had just thanked him before hanging up, and with no excuse to keep the phone to his ear, Serg had no choice but to set it down, growing increasingly flustered under Taotie's silent yet penetrating gaze.

 

"Can I lick it?"

 

Taotie's fingers were long, roughened with callouses from hard labor, yet they carried an air of innate refinement. And now, those very fingers were pointed at him.

 

Serg understood every word—they were in English, after all—yet the meaning eluded him entirely.

 

"Lick?" Was he referring to… what Serg thought he was?

 

Nervously, he glanced at his own hands. His nails were neatly trimmed, the contrast against his deep-toned skin stark and clean. He wasn't holding anything edible, aside from the phone he had just put down.

 

"A delicious color," Taotie murmured, running his tongue across his lips.

 

The sight triggered an unwelcome memory—Taotie earlier, eating a sandwich, a trace of mayonnaise glistening on his lips.

 

A color that did seem… delicious.

 

Realizing the absurdity of his own thoughts, Serg's face went up in flames. He instinctively backed away, only to collide with the counter behind him.

 

"S-Sorry, I don't quite understand what you mean…"

 

Taotie tilted his head slightly, still expressionless. Yet, to Serg, this was mortifying beyond belief.

 

"Can I lick it?"

 

How was he supposed to answer that?!

 

His mind scrambled for a response, but the moment he met those gray eyes, he panicked and looked away, feeling as if he were about to combust.

 

"I'm not edible." He coughed lightly, struggling to maintain his composure. "Not now."

 

"Then, maybe next time."

 

Next time?

 

Serg didn't have the courage to look at him anymore. Instead, he buried his face in his arms atop the counter, utterly defeated.

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