Bai Yiyi was something of an obsessive organizing fanatic. After crashing in Yan Tuo’s chaotic bachelor pad for nearly a month, he’d felt increasingly uncomfortable from the start. Now, it had reached the point of utter intolerability.
In bird form, there were countless tasks that no amount of effort could accomplish. But as a human? Half an hour was all it took—for sweeping and mopping, or sorting out the closet, for instance.
In just three or five days, Bai Yiyi—who transformed into a human every midnight—had toiled away tirelessly, bit by bit, like a diligent little snail. He’d finally whipped his crush’s apartment into something resembling a proper home.
Yan Tuo, utterly oblivious to domestic matters, shifted from complete ignorance to vague awareness. When he finally noticed the changes around the place, he chalked it up to the cleaning lady Hongqing had promised him. He even placed a quick thank-you call, and somehow the two sorted it out without a hitch. Yan Tuo accepted the “facts” without question.
Meanwhile, the birdman who’d poured his heart into it fretted for days, terrified his peculiar habits would give him away.
A hectic week flew by. Yan Tuo finally scored a day off. That morning, he’d hit the supermarket downstairs and picked up some basic veggies, intending to whip up a simple meal as a treat. He was beyond tired of takeout and instant ramen.
Come noontime, he rolled up his sleeves efficiently. He set a slab of meat to thaw in water and scrubbed some potatoes clean, but before he could peel them, his phone rang from the bureau.
Yan Tuo dropped everything on the spot. He called out to the white dumpling perched atop the fridge, peering down curiously. “Tangyuan, emergency at the bureau. Shouldn’t take long—you stay put and be good, okay?”
With that, he abandoned the kitchen mess, still in his casual clothes, snatched his phone and keys, and headed out.
Bai Yiyi hadn’t caught the details on the call. Seeing that Yan Tuo hadn’t even taken his laptop, he figured it really would be quick, just like he’d said.
But that “not long” stretched into the entire afternoon.
By evening mealtime, the meat soaking in the sink had turned pale and waterlogged, yet there was still no sign of his owner.
Bai Yiyi hopped onto the windowsill and gazed out intently, like a statue pining for its beloved’s return. Down in the residential area, people bustled about in lively streams. Streetlights flickered on automatically. Snack stalls brimmed with diners, and outside the convenience store, a little girl wheedled her dad for a soft-serve cone. She beamed adorably once she got it.
Glancing back inside, the room had grown dim without any lights on. The empty space felt cold and lifeless.
Was this the desolate homecoming his owner faced every time he returned from the front lines of protecting others?
Forget cheers and flowers—at the very least, there should be a smiling face, a hot meal waiting…
He fluttered back to his perch on top of the fridge and stared at the pallid meat in the sink, the half-washed potatoes nearby. Even on this weekend day, his owner’s simple wish for a home-cooked bite had gone unfulfilled.
Bai Yiyi felt deeply aggrieved—and heartbroken—for his male god.
Fine. A smile might be out of reach for now, but cooking a meal? Piece of cake. The only hitch was not knowing when Yan Tuo would return. What if he walked in midway?
After agonizing back and forth, Bai Yiyi finally couldn’t suppress the itch any longer.
Screw it. He’d make two familiar home-style dishes—quick ones at that. Yan Tuo had been gone for hours already; the odds of bad timing were slim.
By the time his owner got back, he’d assume the cleaning lady had done it. No way he’d suspect a thing.
Bai Yiyi fired off the request to the system in an instant. Two points deducted, and with a whoosh, he transformed back into human form.
He’d organized the closet himself, so he knew exactly where everything was. He slipped into a black long T-shirt that fit perfectly and spun around like a top, delighted.
The over-soaked meat had turned chewy—better for boiling than stir-frying. And since it was pork belly with skin, he’d make twice-cooked pork with green chilies. Pair it with shredded potato stir-fry: one meat, one veggie, plus steamed rice. More than enough for one man and one bird.
Decision made, his hands blurred into motion. Those slender fingers, more accustomed to paintbrushes, handled the knife with equal finesse.
He cubed the meat neatly and dropped it into boiling water with ginger slices and scallion segments to blanch away any off-flavors. Meanwhile, he peeled two hefty potatoes. With a rhythmic chop-chop-chop on the cutting board, he produced a heaping bowl of evenly shredded potato matchsticks. He filled the bowl with water, added a pinch of salt to draw out excess starch—that way, they’d stay crisp and refreshing after frying.
He rinsed the green chilies and divided them: shreds for the potatoes, chunky rolls for the pork.
With the veggies prepped, the meat had simmered to about eighty percent done. He fished it out, let it drain and cool, then sliced it into thin palm-sized pieces. Everything set—time to fire up the wok.
As for his cooking chops: Growing up in C Province amid countless henpecked husbands and stealth kitchen wizards, this skill ranked second only to his painting prowess for Bai Yiyi. It was a maxed-out ability he’d honed diligently after vowing at his father’s bedside to care for his mother.
His signature trick for twice-cooked pork, that quintessential home dish? No oil at the start.
He heated the wok over low flame and tossed in the sliced pork to dry-fry. Once both sides charred golden and the fat rendered out its oil, he added the veggies, fermented bean paste, and seasonings. A blistering stir-fry blast, finished with a sprinkle of sugar for color and aroma. And just like that: rich yet not greasy, chili-infused twice-cooked pork, redolent with meaty savoriness.
There were endless ways to do shredded potatoes—regional styles varied wildly, from vinegar-laced to plain stir-fries. Bai Yiyi favored the crackle-fry method, a C Province staple for greens.
Slice dried red chilies into segments and sizzle them in the wok with garlic slices until just scorched. Dump in the potato and green chili shreds, season to taste, and fry till cooked through. Done.
He mounded the potatoes onto a plate, the scorched-chili aroma making him swallow hard. Snapping out of it, Bai Yiyi realized he’d overlooked something: Would his male god even like this crackle-fried style? Should’ve played it safe with a plain stir-fry.
No time for regrets—he’d just unplugged the rice cooker when the sound of keys turning in the front door echoed through.
Bai Yiyi’s soul nearly fled his body. He’d only been human for half an hour, nowhere near the cooldown for reverting. With Yan Tuo back now, where could a 177cm-tall guy hide in this 40-square-meter apartment?
He bolted into the bathroom in two strides, easing the door shut as quietly and swiftly as possible. Leaning against it, he panted heavily. Now what? Pray his owner wouldn’t need the toilet for half an hour?
“Tangyuan, where are you?” came the voice from outside.
Bai Yiyi gnawed his thumbnail, legs jittering. Panic surged—maybe lock the door and refuse to budge?
His anime-seasoned brain threw in a wild image: fling open the door in this black T-shirt hanging like a miniskirt over long pale legs, flash a grin, and chirp, “Hey, hubby”?
Argh, insane! Not the time—focus, brain, shut up!
He clawed at his hair, turning his neat mop into a bird’s nest, still drawing a blank.
The voice drew nearer, louder—now in the kitchen. “Tangyuan? I’m back. Come on out—got something tasty.”
As if his desperation had reached the heavens, the system chimed in. “Yiyi? Detecting severe emotional instability. What’s going on?”
Bai Yiyi latched onto his oversight. “It’s not been a full hour yet—can I shift back to bird form right now?”
The system sounded puzzled. “Of course. I can sustain human form up to an hour max, but you don’t have to wait the full time. Human shape guzzles energy; bird form’s a breeze. Reverting early even saves me some points.”
Then, in a petty afterthought: “You can revert ahead of time, sure—but no refunds on the points, Yiyi. You’d be losing out…”
Bai Yiyi exhaled in relief, points be damned. He stripped off the clothes in a frenzy, hooked them on the back of the bathroom door. “Do it now.”
…
Yan Tuo pushed open the bathroom door. There was the white dumpling in front of the mirror, preening its feathers. He chuckled. “Hiding in here, huh? I called forever—did you lock yourself in by accident?”
The little guy shuffled closer with tiny steps and chirped softly, ” …Yan… Tuo.”
No matter how many times he heard it, that crisp little bird voice saying his name was irresistibly cute and heart-melting. Yan Tuo was utterly smitten with the fluffy bundle.
He reached out to scoop up the dumpling. “Come on out—the lady made us something good.”
But Tangyuan seemed shy, dodging his grasp with a “cheep” before fluttering straight to the dining table and perching there.
Yan Tuo smiled. He’d called the bird “smart” too many times already; no need to repeat. As he turned to leave the bathroom, his eye caught the black T-shirt hanging on the door. That thing he’d bought after college graduation—how’d it end up here? He hadn’t worn it recently…
Puzzled, he took it down and gave it a sniff on instinct. Besides the faint scent of his usual laundry detergent, there was a whiff of cooking oil.
It clicked. He rarely cooked and owned no apron, so the cleaning lady must’ve borrowed his old shirt as a makeshift one. Time to stock an actual apron at home.
No further thoughts. He headed back to the kitchen, plated the dishes, scooped rice, and joined Tangyuan at the table.
“Whoa, still hot. She just left?”
He wasn’t expecting a reply, but he’d grown used to chatting with Tangyuan like a normal person. Even without a peep from the bird, Yan Tuo always felt like it understood.
Man and bird settled in to savor the feast in companionable silence.
Yan Tuo first scooped a few grains of rice from his bowl for the white dumpling, only then turning to his own meal at a leisurely pace.
As soon as one chopstick of food touched his tongue, he couldn’t help raising a single eyebrow. This plate of twice-cooked pork with green peppers was a vivid mix of green and red, its color and aroma utterly tempting. Unexpectedly, the flavor was even more exquisite—one big bite was soft and glutinous without the slightest trace of greasiness, so delicious that he nearly bit his own tongue.
He wolfed down several more pieces in rapid succession before finally scooping up a mouthful of rice with a hint of satisfaction. When he reached the shredded potatoes, he chewed briefly before suddenly freezing in place.
Bai Yiyi had been intently watching his master’s every expression, of course taking in the man’s current reaction. The twice-cooked pork clearly pleased him, but the shredded potatoes—could they be too spicy? Why else would he stop chewing midway, his eyes even starting to redden faintly?
No way. Had the dish he made actually brought tears to his own male god’s eyes?
