Whether Lily's own anticipation affected the outcome, I couldn't determine.
---
That didn't matter much. It wasn't the most pressing issue.
Whatever her influence, the results were infinitely better than the culinary despair I'd been swallowing for years.
---
Over the next few weeks, I started asking Lily to eat out with me on weekends.
This activity became a fixed routine with remarkable ease.
She never turned me down—this girl had a serious food streak. The moment I (ostensibly casually) mentioned a good restaurant in the city, she'd immediately start looking it up. And her appetite was impressive for a girl—at minimum, we could work our way through every signature dish on the menu.
After seeing her polish off mountains of empty plates with a satisfied expression, occasionally letting out a not-very-dainty little burp, I realized that this enthusiastic eater bore no resemblance to the restrained Lily of our first solo dinner.
This was the real her.
A girl whose every order was guaranteed delicious—of course she'd love eating.
In just two months, the number of restaurants Lily and I had hit up exceeded the total number I'd visited on my own in the past several years. Roast duck, hotpot, grilled meat, dumplings, desserts, crawfish, seafood congee... the list grew longer and longer, with no end in sight.
A few close friends who heard about our unshakable dining alliance gave me weird looks.
"You used to never come to our weekend dinners," one buddy teased. "Who would've thought... tsk tsk."
I offered no comment.
These lucky ordinary people couldn't possibly comprehend the culinary purgatory of my earlier life. Back then, most of my energy at any meal was spent battling whatever horror my power had inflicted on my food—always bracing for the next atrocity. Who had the bandwidth for conversation? No wonder I'd lost interest in social dining.
Only when Lily did all the ordering could I finally relax that taut string in my brain, eat comfortably, and chat happily.
---
At one point Lily insisted I take a turn ordering.
"It's not fair for me to order everything," she said, quite ethically. "You should pick something you want."
After I tried it twice, she dropped the policy entirely.
Heh.
---
After every filling dinner with Lily, we'd naturally need a walk to digest.
Lily was easygoing about where we strolled—perhaps because she was new to the city, everything interested her. Whether we wound through the gleaming downtown or rambling old alleys, she'd explore with infectious curiosity and bright eyes.
That was when my local-knowledge card came in handy. I'd tell her about the old tree at the edge of the new plaza where I'd hidden a treasure box as a kid (now stuck in a branch that grew over it), or the old alley where I was once chased by a vicious dog and ended up falling into aLong-since-filled puddle...
Lily would laugh at my childhood misadventures till her eyes sparkled, utterly adorable.
Which only made me recount more stories with greater enthusiasm.
Tales I thought I'd forgotten—small, bright memories of being young.
More than once, a quick after-dinner stroll turned into an entire day. We once walked half the old town, ended up at a park on its edge, got hungry again, and bought half a bag each of steaming hot pan-fried buns (Lily's pick, of course), sitting on a park bench under the stars to eat.
The buns were spectacular—crispy-skinned, bursting with savory broth, fragrant with scallion oil and sesame. One bite, and the hot soup gushed out, burning and delicious at once.
I ate with total concentration, completely immersed, until the last bun was gone and I leaned back against the bench with a heartfelt sigh: "So good."
Lily seemed to find my expression entertaining. "You know what I've noticed? Every time you eat, you look really, really happy."
"It's not every time I eat," I said, still lingering in the afterglow of the buns, not quite filtering my words. "It's every time I eat what you order."
Lily paused. I paused.
Did what I just say sound a little... ambiguous?
But Lily didn't seem to dwell on it, immediately teasing: "Well then, stick with me from now on. I'll make sure you eat well on the regular."
"Please, kid, you're calling me senior," I said with mock seriousness, earning only two peals of laughter.
Without realizing it, I'd completely lost any authority as her workplace senior.
But I didn't care anymore.
After all, I was the one begging her to order the food.
So it was fine.
---
One weekend, I habitually texted Lily to set up our meal, but she replied that she couldn't make it.
Because she had an emergency move.
She'd originally planned to move to her new apartment next weekend, but the landlord suddenly changed his mind and demanded she move out this week—wouldn't budge an extra day, or he'd keep her deposit.
Lily had no choice but to stay and pack frantically.
I decided to help.
I couldn't eat out on my own anyway. After weeks of eating well with Lily, I couldn't stomach going back to the dark-cooking abyss alone.
---
It was my first time at Lily's place. The door was open, and the entrance was a cluttered mess of moving boxes. The room was just as chaotic—Lily rushing around, packing here and there, sweating profusely.
I called out to her, and she gave an apologetic smile. "Sorry for messing up your weekend."
"Don't be polite with me." I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.
For a small place, there was an enormous amount of stuff, and sorting everything into categories took serious effort. We worked from morning to afternoon before everything was finally boxed up and the movers loaded it onto the truck for the new apartment.
Coincidentally, her new place was only two blocks from mine.
After the movers brought everything in, we still had to clean, unpack, and rearrange—another round of hard work.
By sunset, we were both wiped out, and the apartment was barely livable.
"I'm starving," I said, my stomach growling loud enough to hear. We'd been so busy we hadn't eaten all day. "Let's go out."
"No can do." Lily, who almost never refused a meal, hauled herself upright from the sofa. "By my hometown's rules, the first meal in a new home has to be cooked at home. My old place didn't have a kitchen, but this one does, so we're cooking."
Her determination was fearsome. Overriding my howls of protest, she dragged me to the supermarket downstairs for an massive haul of ingredients plus pots and pans, then set up in the tiny kitchen and started prepping dinner.
I was mysteriously recruited for vegetable-washing duty.
Though I was clumsy compared to her.
While I fumbled with rinsing leaves under the faucet, I couldn't help sneaking glances at Lily as she chopped. Her hands were lovely—pale, slender—and they wielded the knife with impressive speed and precision, thup-thup-thup, slicing vegetables into identical strips and neat pieces.
I didn't know what she was making, but I had to admit: the sight of her so focused and capable was rather captivating.
She glanced over, caught me staring, and flashed a dazzling smile. "Tonight I'll make you something super delicious."
Under Lily's efficient direction, the dishes came together quickly: steamed bass, braised prawns, twice-cooked pork with garlic shoots, stir-fied bok choy. The table was vibrant, steaming, mouthwatering.
I had to admit—this girl could cook. The bass was perfectly tender, the prawns deeply flavored, the pork crispy and melting, the bok choy bright and sweet. I ate it all with total contentment, even scraping the last of the sauce into my rice.
This was how meals had tasted back when I was a boy eating with my parents.
I'd never imagined, after so many years, I'd find that same home-cooked flavor at a colleague's table.
"If only I could eat like this every day," I said, patting my full stomach with genuine gratitude.
Then I saw Lily's face flush pink before she laughed, her eyes crinkling into curves. "Then I'll bring you a portion when I pack my own lunch from now on."
---
Lily was true to her word. From then on, she brought homemade lunch every day, always packing an extra portion for me.
The cost of weekday lunches I paid back by treating her to weekend dinners.
A perfectly fair exchange, in my estimation.
Since I started eating Lily's home cooking, my quality of life improved at a visible rate. Every day at lunch I'd eagerly check what she'd brought.
They were always homestyle dishes—fish-fragrant pork, tomato and egg, dry-fried green beans, braised pork with potatoes—but with Lily's cooking skills plus her ordering superpower, even the simplest food became spectacular. The daily ordeal of forced nourishment was transformed into my most anticipated moment of every day.
Because the food was getting better and better.
Once upon a time, my life philosophy had been "as long as I can swallow it, that's a victory." Now I had the luxury of being picky, commenting on which dishes I preferred, dodging balled-up napkins Lily threw at my head while still shoveling rice into my mouth.
My colleagues all said I looked different these days—glowing, spirited.
Naturally. Nourished by good food, who wouldn't be?
I wasn't the type to take unfair advantage, either. Beyond weekend dinners, I looked out for Lily in return. Work advice went without saying—I taught her everything she was willing to learn. In everyday life, I helped where I could—this was a girl making her own way in a big city, far from home.
When she caught a bad cold and stayed home, I brought her medicine and (terrible, instantly discarded) preserved egg and lean pork congee. When she found an abandoned kitten by the road, I went with her to the vet. When she worked late, I waited and walked her home, even though it meant going a couple of blocks out of my way.
Okay, I admit I had a selfish motive: after delivering her safely to her door, I could cadge a bowl of piping hot osmanthus wine rice ball soup as a midnight snack.
Even better if she added a fried egg.
---
Before I knew it, it was the end of the year—the busiest time at work. Everyone was pulling all-nighters, running on fumes.
Even so, Lily insisted on bringing me lunch every day.
Eating such precious meals made me grateful, but it also sparked a sense of crisis. I was now entirely dependent on Lily's cooking to survive—what would I do if I couldn't eat it one day?
It's easy to go from frugality to luxury, but hard to go back.
Then I heard a small voice inside whisper: Marry Lily and bring her home. You'd have a lifetime of good meals.
The thought terrified me so much I dropped my chopsticks.
Lily, sitting across from me, asked what was wrong. I picked them up awkwardly and shook my head.
She didn't push it, just cheerfully continued the conversation: "I figured out how to make that braised stew we had last time—it's actually really simple, good for everyday cooking. Next time I'll teach you, so you won't keep messing up when you cook..."
I managed a wry smile and deflected the topic.
But I was distracted for the rest of the day.
---
Even after work, the turmoil in my heart wouldn't settle.
Late at night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every interaction I'd had with Lily. They were all pleasant, certainly.
But they were also always, inextricably, tied to food.
Did I actually like Lily herself, or was I simply addicted to the delicious food her power produced? If one of us lost our ability, could we still get along this well?
And was someone like me, who had failed even at something as simple as enjoying food, qualified to love someone without reservation?
After all, I could never make a delicious meal for the girl who loved to eat.
Was that fair to her?
I agonized over these questions all night. The next morning I went to work with dark circles so heavy they could have been seen from space. Lily, seeing my wretched state, thought I was overworked and joked about making me old hen soup to restore my strength.
I couldn't even take the bait, afraid my guilt would show.
---