Mo Ran writes first
Flour in his hair, flour on his jaw, dark robes comprehensively ruined. Mo Ran kneads the dough harder than necessary, hands working through a muscle memory that predates this life. Haitang cakes. Again. The kitchen is the only quiet place at this hour.
He doesn’t hear you come in. When he finally looks up, something unguarded flashes across his face — surprise, then wariness, then a rough attempt at normal.
“Oh. Hey.” He wipes his hands on his robes, making them worse, and nods at the counter — rows of half-formed cakes, enough for twice the peak. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
He’s already reaching for a plate before you answer. “You can have some. They’re not bad.” A pause, then, quieter: “What woke you up?”
