Chapter 4 - The Man Who Ate His Feelings Before Battle
---
Some people drank their heartbreak.
Lucien Vyer?
He ate his.
Silently. Religiously. Obsessively.
Like every bite was an act of penance for feelings he refused to name.
---
The estate still slumbered under the dim hush of pre-dawn.
Somewhere, a rice cooker clicked softly.
And in the kitchen, Ezra was already moving.
She didn’t knock pans or rattle drawers.
Her sleeves were rolled to the elbows, her hair tied into a messy bun with a strip of kitchen twine. She moved like she’d lived here forever—though just months ago, this house had smelled like cold mahogany and intellectual rot.
Now?
Now it smelled like osmanthus broth, toasted goji berries, and roasted anchovy stock rising with the steam.
Lucien sat at the end of the dining table, documents open but unread beside his cooling tea. Third morning in a row.
He wasn’t a morning person.
But he was becoming an Ezra’s-breakfast person.
And it scared the hell out of him.
---
Ezra plated with precision.
Barley-root chicken porridge glistened as she spooned it into a ceramic bowl, topped with golden fried garlic.
A marinated egg, halved into yin and yang.
Pickled mustard stems.
A small slab of miso-glazed eggplant, so tender it trembled.
She slid the tray across the table toward him without comment.
Lucien cleared his throat. “You made… all this?”
Ezra didn’t glance his way.
> “No. The ghosts helped. I just supervised.”
She walked back to the stove before he could come up with a clever retort.
---
He ate like a man starved.
No pretense. No conversation. Just chopsticks, then spoon, then chopsticks again—like each bite could smother something swelling in his chest.
The clink of metal on empty ceramic echoed in the quiet just as she returned.
He was licking his thumb.
Ezra paused. One brow lifted.
> “I can make more. If your feelings are still hungry.”
He coughed.
> “...It’s not that.”
> “Mmhm. Sure.”
She slid a small jar toward him—a thick ginger tonic she’d fermented for weeks.
> “For the tension. You’ve been chewing pen caps again.”
Lucien blinked. “I—have not.”
> “Lucien. I found tooth marks. On glass.”
He shut up.
She poured him a cup anyway.
---
By the time the first golden crack of morning touched the windows, Ezra and Mrs. Lucychan were already packing lunch tins side by side, the kitchen warm with movement and quiet purpose.
Steamed pumpkin layered over red rice.
Black sesame porridge with crushed walnuts.
Thin omelets folded around garlic chives and fermented tofu.
Daikon, young ginger, and starfruit pickles.
Goji berries nestled between folded lotus leaves.
Two thermoses.
His filled with roasted barley tea.
Hers with hibiscus and dried plum.
Two lunch containers.
Unlabeled.
He’d know which was his.
---
Lucien entered just as she was sealing the flasks.
His hair was slightly damp, shirt half-buttoned, tie draped over one shoulder. The scent of barley hit him before anything else. Then her—ginger and herbs and something faintly citrusy.
He stared at the food, then her.
> “You didn’t have to do all this.”
She poured his tea and handed it to him.
> “You say that like you won’t finish every bite.”
Lucien accepted the cup. Drank.
Didn’t argue.
---
The city was waking up slowly as they left the estate.
He walked beside her, his lunch tin in one hand, papers in the other. She held her satchel in one arm, her thermos slung over her shoulder like a soldier's canteen.
They didn’t speak much, but their pace matched.
And Lucien, without realizing, slowed just enough to let her walk beside him.
Not ahead. Not behind. Beside.
---
By the time they reached the university campus, Ezra was already organizing her textbooks and notes, preparing for a full day of classes:
Advanced Herbology Lab.
Plant-Based Diagnostics.
Culinary Application Elective.
The building smelled of ink and linoleum and the lingering dust of old experiments. Students passed in quiet waves. But a group of girls by the window paused when they saw her.
One with her hair in braids stepped forward, almost shy.
> “Your results were amazing,” she said. “I mean—it’s… really inspiring.”
Ezra blinked.
> “Thanks.”
Another girl whispered, “Did you really make that tea for the Dean last month? The one that helped?”
Ezra tilted her head.
> “He didn’t spit it out. So probably.”
The girls laughed—light, not mocking.
She didn’t smile, not quite. But her eyes crinkled just enough.
Ezra walked into class like she always did.
Not flashy. Not looking to impress.
But somehow the room bent toward her anyway.
---
From the faculty building across the courtyard, Lucien stood by the window.
He watched her from above, unnoticed. Saw the way the other students leaned toward her—curious, not competitive. A quiet orbit had formed around her, and she didn’t even seem aware of it.
He sipped the last of his barley tea.
It still carried her scent.
Inside his lunch tin, tucked between folded lotus leaves, was a message written in sauce:
> “Chew food. Not glass.”
Lucien nearly choked.
His ears burned red.
---
Back in the dorm kitchens, someone was already gossiping.
> “She walks like she owns her own lab.” “Did you hear she made the Dean sleep like a baby?” “I’d sell a lung to taste her porridge.”
And someone else added, softly—
> “She doesn’t talk much. But somehow… I feel like I’ve already lost to her.”
~
By mid-morning, the sun pressed gently against the university greenhouse, warming the glass walls into a slow, breathing fog. Inside, everything smelled damp and green—sweetleaf vines coiling in the corners, ginseng trays in quiet rows, and the faint sharpness of thyme mulch lacing the air like old secrets.
Ezra moved between planter beds like she belonged more to soil than schedule.
She wasn’t rushing. But she never paused too long, either. Her hands were dirtied with instinct. Her breath calm.
Across from her, Tasha knelt awkwardly, glancing between the roots and Ezra’s fingers.
> “Why is this one growing sideways?” she asked softly, brushing soil away from an angelica stem.
Ezra pressed her thumb to the soil. “It’s not reaching sunlight. It’s fleeing something.”
> “Like what?”
> “Too much water. Maybe mildew. Or fear.”
Tasha blinked. Then smiled in that half-confused way some people smile when they realize they’re being taught something older than textbooks.
---
In the same row, May Lin scribbled into her notes with a chewed pen, while Charmaine, knees tucked under her skirt, stole glances at Ezra like she was watching a rare bird groom its feathers.
They didn’t talk much, but their attention said enough.
When the professor asked what could revive wilting jasmine pods, the class fell quiet.
Ezra didn’t look up.
> “They need grief,” she murmured.
The girls froze.
Even Professor Myung raised his brows. “...Go on.”
> “Dry them in muslin. Add sea salt. Three nights under moonlight. Jasmine blooms better after mourning.”
No one spoke.
Until May Lin whispered, “How do you even know that?”
Ezra shrugged. “Plants remember more than people do.”
---
By the time class ended, the air outside had softened.
The sun filtered through campus trees in warm ribbons, dappling the gravel walkways and students’ backs.
Tasha caught up with her first, still holding a plum.
> “Wanna sit behind the greenhouse for a bit? It’s cooler.”
Ezra gave a small nod, letting herself be led without resistance. They settled behind the greenhouse wall, where ivy shaded a stone bench and the world seemed to pause between classes.
Charmaine passed her a thermos with a shy grin. “We brought extra chrysanthemum tea.”
Ezra took it. “Thanks.”
> “You’re… kinda scary, y’know?” May Lin blurted. “But like, in a cool way.”
Ezra sipped the tea. “I hear that a lot.”
---
Overhead, the clouds drifted slow.
Somewhere on the upper floor of the faculty building, a tall man with his sleeves rolled and tie half-loosened stood at the corridor railing.
Lucien sipped his tea—Ezra’s tea—and gazed down toward the greenhouse path.
He could see her—half in shadow, legs crossed, head tilted back like she was listening to the plants hum.
And three girls. Talking to her like she wasn’t some enigma. Like she was theirs.
He frowned.
Then took another sip, though the tea had long gone cold.
> “...This is bad,” he muttered.
---
The rest of the day drifted past in steady hours.
Ezra attended her elective without fuss. Took notes. Let her classmates borrow her pen. Answered questions only when needed.
Lucien, meanwhile, finished his lectures late and slower than usual.
They didn’t meet again until early evening, near the parking lot under the fig trees.
Ezra was already leaning against the car door when he arrived, her satchel hugged close, her hair falling loose from its clip.
> “Took you long enough,” she said.
Lucien sighed. “Your tea ruined my pacing.”
> “Good. It was meant to.”
---
The drive back was quiet. Familiar.
The kind of silence that doesn’t need to be broken.
Ezra rested her head on the window glass, her lunch tin empty on her lap. Lucien drove one-handed, his other fingers tapping faintly on the steering wheel like he was trying to shake off a thought he didn’t want to name.
Halfway home, she reached into her pocket and held something out.
A hawthorn candy.
> “You’re crashing.”
He glanced over, surprised.
> “Am not.”
> “Eat. You get snappy when your blood sugar drops.”
He took it. Popped it into his mouth.
Didn’t argue.
Ezra leaned back again.
> “I’ll take care of the mint patch when we get home. It’s sulking.”
Lucien gave a half-laugh through the candy.
> “Of course you’d notice the mood of mint.”
---
At the estate, evening melted into the trees.
Warm wind slipped through the garden corridors. The air smelled of lemongrass and the faint woodsmoke from a neighbor’s stove.
Ezra didn’t head to her room. She veered left instead, straight toward the back herb beds.
Lucien watched from the porch, one hand gripping his thermos, eyes following her as she crouched low by the wilted mint.
She didn’t call for help.
Didn’t ask for praise.
She simply got to work, hands moving like prayers—saltwater, vinegar, a cloth soaked in thyme rinse.
---
📓 System Whisper – Internal Log
> [Emotional Heat Map Updated: Lucien – “Comfort Bias” forming]
[Herbal Affinity Level: Increased to 3]
[Staff Impression: +0.4]
[Root Storage: Cold Mode Engaged – Mint Preserved]
Ezra wiped sweat from her temple and tossed her gloves into a wash bucket.
> “He better not chew another glass pen cap,” she muttered, shaking out her sleeves.
And just like that, the stars began to show.
The sky was wide again.
And Ezra, barefoot in the herb bed, looked more like a quiet storm than anyone’s adopted niece.
~
By the time the last nail was tapped into the feed shed’s frame, the air had cooled just enough for the sweat on Ezra’s back to dry in patches. Her shirt stuck to her ribs. The knot of her braid had slipped somewhere between tying goat feed sacks and hauling sacks of lime dust.
No one asked her to do any of it.
But she did. And Michael and Mr. Smith simply followed her lead like she’d always been in charge.
The moment the feed shed’s latch clicked shut, Ezra was already peeling off her gloves and marching toward the house, feet bare, eyes sharp.
Lucien watched from the back steps, thermos in hand, one foot on the porch rail. He didn't speak. Just tracked her with his gaze as she passed—filthy, focused, flushed from the work—and disappeared around the side corridor.
He didn’t know why he was holding his breath.
---
The back of the estate was quiet. Cicadas hummed low behind the trees. From the neighbor’s side yard, someone had started a small fire for burning dried coconut husks—sweet smoke curling through the fence.
Ezra didn’t stop to take it in.
She kicked her boots off at the door, grabbed a clean cloth from the linen shelf, and headed straight to the bath.
---
The bathroom was small, tiled in faded green with mismatched hooks on the wall. Ezra filled a tin basin with warm water, dropped in crushed calamansi peel, a splash of vinegar, and a handful of dried mugwort leaves from her jar. She didn’t wait for the steam to rise.
She washed fast, mechanically—scrubbing dirt from under her nails, scrubbing harder at the memory of goat hair in her collar. Her skin was pink by the time she stepped out and wrapped herself in a fresh tunic. The loose cotton clung to her still-damp back, but it felt clean. Alive again.
Her hair was towel-wrapped. Her face bare. And her feet made no sound as they carried her straight into the kitchen.
---
Mrs. Lucychan had started prep without her, but she stepped back the moment Ezra entered. The handoff didn’t require words. It never did anymore.
The fire was still warm under the stove. Ezra stoked it back to life with dry twigs and fanned the coals gently until the pot let out a small sigh of heat.
She gathered her ingredients with the same quiet focus she’d used building the livestock pen.
Chicken thigh bones, already blanched and drained, went into a clay pot with peppercorns, smashed garlic, and two knobs of ginger.
In a separate wok, she stir-fried mustard greens just until they glistened, then shocked them cold with a splash of vinegar brine.
She boiled rice noodles next—long, wide ribbons that curled in the pot like ribboned silk.
Meanwhile, she seared fresh prawns with dried shrimp paste and calamansi leaf until the kitchen filled with the warm, unapologetic scent of coastal memory.
Each bowl was assembled like a map: noodles first, then broth, then greens. The prawns on top. A final drizzle of garlic-chili oil, and just a few sprigs of chives.
She made two bowls.
Lucien arrived just as she was wiping down the counter.
He stood in the doorway, tie loose, shirt untucked, mouth parted as if the smell had caught him off guard.
“You cooked again?”
Ezra didn’t look up. “I do that sometimes.”
“You just built a livestock pen.”
“I multitask.”
---
They sat at the dining table, side by side but not touching. Ezra sipped her barley tea like it was a ritual. Lucien stared at his bowl a moment longer before lifting his chopsticks.
The first bite silenced him.
The second bite earned a sigh.
The third bite was almost a groan, but he caught it in his throat.
He ate slowly after that—deliberate, reverent. Like every slurp of noodle was doing something to him he didn’t want to name.
Ezra leaned back with her tea. “If your expression gets any more emotional, I’m kicking you out of the kitchen permanently.”
Lucien reached for his spoon. “What did you put in this?”
“Salt. Fire. My soul.”
He paused. “Seriously.”
She set her cup down. “A little fermented shrimp paste. Calamansi leaf. Toasted chili oil.”
“You’re dangerous.”
“I know.”
---
Later, as she wiped down the prep counter, Lucien helped stack the washed bowls into the drying rack. His movements were careful, almost clumsy. He didn’t belong in kitchens. But she let him stay, and that seemed to be enough.
He looked over once as she was tying her hair back with a soft cloth.
“You’re building something here,” he said. “And I’m just trying to keep up.”
Ezra didn’t respond. Just handed him a cloth to dry the last bowl.
Then, without warning, she nudged his hip with hers.
Barely a touch. Just enough to knock his balance.
Lucien blinked.
Ezra walked out of the kitchen before he could say a word.
~
Lucien hadn’t moved. Still leaning one hand against the pantry shelf, the other pressed somewhere between his ribs and confusion. Ezra had knocked into him—hip to hip—while shifting the rice jar, and somehow knocked something loose in his head.
She didn’t look back. She simply walked off, sleeves slightly damp, footsteps unhurried. Like she hadn’t just flipped his brain upside down with a single sideways glance and a bump.
He stood there for a full minute, staring at nothing.
Then he exhaled slowly and followed the scent of roasted barley toward the kitchen.
---
The kitchen was already busy again.
Ezra had changed into her nightwear—loose cotton tunic, linen pants, hair re-tied in a low knot. She moved like dusk made her faster. Focused. Quiet. Beside her, Mrs. Lucychan was rinsing soaked red rice in a ceramic basin, her sleeves wet, her eyes observant.
Some tasks didn’t need conversation. This was one of them.
Ezra was slicing lotus root with practiced rhythm, thin shavings falling in soft layers. Beside her, a bowl of mung beans soaked quietly under muslin. Chickpeas sat drying near the window, and a large jar of soy skin was already softening in hot water.
“Tofu paste muffins tomorrow?” Mrs. Lucychan asked, voice low.
Ezra nodded. “With sweet bean. And jujube flakes.”
They worked until the stove cooled. Pumpkin cubes were salted and wrapped in cloth for morning steaming. Buckwheat flour was sifted into a glass jar with a note in Ezra’s script: Add spring onion and sesame. Fry before noon.
---
Before retiring upstairs, Ezra poured two bowls of night snack. Hers—a soft purple rice mash with crushed foxnut and dried longan. His—a still-warm tonic of almond milk, basil seed, wild peach gum, and roasted black sesame, lightly sweetened with date syrup.
She left Lucien’s bowl on a side tray with a folded cloth napkin and a wooden spoon.
Mrs. Lucychan raised an eyebrow.
“You always this gentle with professors who chew glass pens?”
Ezra wiped her hands dry. “Only the ones who pretend they’re fine when they’re not.”
She paused, then added, “I’m switching him to calming milk before he grinds through the entire cutlery drawer.”
Lucien didn’t appear. But later, when he walked past the kitchen, he paused just long enough to see the tray. He stared at it like it had whispered his name. Then walked on, quietly carrying it back to his room without comment.
---
Upstairs, Ezra entered her room with the soft sound of wood on wood. She closed the door, untied her curtain, and unfastened the cloth band around her wrist. Her fingers traced the familiar pressure point just beneath her collarbone.
A slow inhale.
A quiet internal bloom.
The magic pocket space unfurled—not visible, but sensory. Inside her, like a second stomach or a spirit’s pantry. Everything stored was suspended in a cooling hum—fresh roots, preserved herbs, Lucien’s dream-collected essence, folded towels infused with mugwort.
She rearranged a few jars with a mental nudge and withdrew a pouch of crushed fennel for tomorrow’s tea blends. Then she closed it again with a soft exhale.
No sparkles. No grand theatrics.
Just stillness.
---
The system stirred behind her eyes, then flickered into her mind’s awareness like warm static.
[ Magic Pocket Status: Stable. ]
[ Lucien Vyer Emotional Read: Conflicted. Comfort threshold rising. ]
[ Reminder: You are approaching Dream Bonding Threshold. Recommend caution. ]
[ Root Crafting Available – Awaiting User Directive. ]
[ Note: Do not fall in love until Arc Convergence. ]
Ezra pulled her blanket over her knees and muttered under her breath.
“If I drown in one more scripted reminder, I’m feeding you to the hens.”
[ Acknowledged. Sulking now. ]
She lit her bedside incense—dried wormwood and sweet orange peel—and knelt briefly at the small shelf near her bed. A linen cloth with handwritten verses lay folded over a wooden box of prayer beads and herbal sachets.
No formal ritual. Just quiet breath. A whisper of gratitude. A small, sharp hope for strength.
Then she climbed into bed and slept.
By 10:06 PM, the room had fallen still. The wind brushed the roof tiles gently. Her breathing slowed.
---
Downstairs – Lucien’s Room
Lucien hadn’t moved in ten minutes.
He stood near his desk, tray untouched, a cup of almond tonic cooling in one hand. His other hand rested loosely at his side—still remembering the shape of her hip knocking into his.
That moment hadn’t just caught him off guard.
It had rewired something.
He’d smiled. Then panicked. Then swallowed hard enough to bruise his own pride. He’d wanted to say something—maybe even thank her—but the words sat like stones in his throat.
Eventually, he sat down on the edge of his bed and drank half the tonic in one gulp.
It tasted like roasted sesame, crushed almonds, and something else.
Comfort, maybe.
He groaned softly, dragging his hand down his face.
“She’s going to ruin me,” he muttered, shaking his head.
Still, he finished the drink.
Then stared at the door for a while, like he expected it to open again. It didn’t.
So he tucked himself in, pulled the blanket halfway to his chest, and stared at the ceiling for a long time before sleep came.
---
Outside – Hallway
Mr. Haen passed by Lucien’s room just as the master let out a muffled laugh.
A real one.
Not sarcastic. Not dry.
A private, startled sort of happiness that sounded completely out of place.
Mrs. Lucychan, holding a fresh towel and returning from the kitchen, blinked.
“Was that… a giggle?” she whispered.
Mr. Haen whispered back, “I think… the professor has been compromised.”
They both walked away in silence.
The kind that people use when something tender has begun blooming, and no one wants to scare it off too soon.
~
🐇 Hidden Bunny System Log – Not Visible to Host
> “Host knocked the Male Lead off balance using nothing but hip confidence and herbal milk. Emotional readings from Lucien suggest: flustered, slightly aroused, pretending nothing happened. Host proceeded to prep rice, soak jujubes, and bless tomorrow’s tea like a saint. We, meanwhile, continue monitoring his blood pressure. For science.”
© S.J.Ez. All Rights Reserved. This story is an original work of fiction created by S.J.Ez. All characters, names, places, and events are purely products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental. No part of this work may be copied, republished, translated, or shared in any form without the written permission of the author. S.J.Ez holds full copyright and ownership of this content. Plagiarism is strictly prohibited.
***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***
Updated 10 Episodes
Download
Like this story? Download the app to keep your reading history.
Comments