Chapter 10: Partying and Testing cooking skills

His current outfits were too plain, too repetitive. So he decided it was time for a wardrobe upgrade.

The store was decent. Mid-range, nothing flashy. He browsed, fingers grazing the fabric as he made quick, efficient choices. A few neutral-colored shirts, a couple of jackets, dark jeans.

As it was afternoon he decided to eat outside.

David rarely treated himself, but today, he figured he'd indulge. The restaurant wasn't fancy, but it was better than the quick bites he usually grabbed.

His eyes skimmed over the dishes, and something strange happened—he knew. Not just what the food was, but how it was made. Ingredients, spices, cooking techniques. It was like reading a blueprint instead of a menu.

An effect of his system's Cooking Mastery Skill, no doubt.

When his meal arrived, he took his time. The flavors were clearer, more distinct. His brain processed every spice, every texture. He could almost break it down step by step—how long the meat had been marinated, what temperature it had been cooked at.

I could make this.

The realization caught him off guard. He knew how to cook, but now… it felt second nature. Something to test later.

For now, he finished his meal, left a reasonable tip, and walked out.

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[Later that evening]

David wasn't exactly a bar guy, but tonight, he figured, why not?

Joe had texted him an address, nothing fancy—just a casual bar where locals hung out after work. So, he dressed the part. Dark jeans, a simple button-up, and a jacket.

The place had a dim, warm glow, the kind of lighting that made it feel relaxed. The hum of conversation mixed with clinking glasses and the occasional burst of laughter. As he stepped inside, his eyes adjusted quickly, scanned the place to find Joe.

Joe was easy to spot, seated at the far end of the bar with a group of people. When David approached, Joe grinned and waved him over.

"Hey, you made it!" Joe said, raising his glass.

David nodded, taking in the group. Joe gestured toward them.

"Guys, this is David—works at the diner with me. David, meet the gang."

A quick round of introductions followed. There was Marco, a stocky guy with a loud laugh; Tina, a sharp-witted woman who worked at a nearby bookstore; Ethan, who actually worked at the same diner but on different shifts, which explained why David had only seen him once or twice; and Lev, a laid-back guy with an easygoing smile.

"Nice to meet you all," David said, shaking hands where appropriate.

With introductions out of the way, they eased into conversation, mostly about work. Ethan complained about customers who didn't tip, Marco had some hilarious stories about his job at a garage, and Joe—true to form—kept things lively with jokes and exaggerated retellings of minor work mishaps.

Food came, drinks followed. Nothing excessive at first—just casual drinking. But as the night went on and two of the group left early due to family obligations, Joe leaned forward with a mischievous grin.

"Alright, boys," he said, slamming his glass down. "Drinking game time."

David raised an eyebrow. "You sure that's a good idea?"

"Absolutely not," Lev chuckled. "Which is why we're doing it."

The game started simple but it escalated quickly. More people from nearby tables joined in, and soon, the bar was alive with energy. Cheers, groans, and laughter filled the air.

David, despite his initial reservations, found himself enjoying the atmosphere. His tolerance was decent, but the drinks kept coming. Eventually, things blurred into a haze of laughter, cheers, and music.

Then—blackout.

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[The Next Day]

David woke up with a mild headache, a dry throat, and the distinct sensation of not being alone.

His eyes flickered open, taking in the unfamiliar ceiling. A soft warmth pressed against his side, and as he slowly sat up, the covers shifted, revealing her.

A young woman, probably in her early twenties, was curled up beside him. Tousled black hair spread across the pillow, her breathing slow and steady. Smooth, golden-toned skin, delicate features. A natural, effortless kind of beauty.

And, most importantly, both of them were very, very naked.

David's mind clicked into overdrive.

What the hell happened last night?

He had no gaps in his memory—his skill perfect recall was too good for that. And judging by the very vivid flashes of last night's activities running through his brain, he hadn't just gone along for the ride.

No.

He had actively participated. Enthusiastically. Repeatedly.

The heat rising in his face wasn't from embarrassment but from the sheer intensity of those memories.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair.

Okay. First time for everything. But what now?

He didn't have any experiences like this in prior in both lives. but the movies and TV shows he had seen gave him two options.

Either he sneak out quietly like nothing happened or be the decent guy and at least make her breakfast.

David sighed, rubbing his temples. He had no clue what was expected in this situation, but he wasn't about to disappear like a cliché.

Decision made, he quietly slipped out of bed, put on his clothes, and padded toward the kitchen. Stretching his arms, he spotted a water bottle on the counter and downed half of it, trying to shake off the remaining grogginess.

Now… breakfast.

He wasn't sure what kind of morning this would turn into.

Her kitchen was modest but well-kept—stainless steel appliances, a stocked spice rack, and a cast-iron skillet resting on the stove. His eyes scanned the space, instinctively cataloging every ingredient available, every tool within reach.

Opening the fridge, he found buttermilk, eggs, and butter. A quick search in the pantry yielded flour, sugar, and baking powder. Perfect.

He moved with effortless precision, cracking eggs one-handed while simultaneously measuring out flour. He didn't need exact measurements—his skill let him feel the right ratios. A flick of his wrist, and the batter was smooth, thick, and airy.

The griddle heated and he poured the batter, forming perfectly round pancakes, flipping them midair with an easy flick. A golden-brown crust. The scent of warm vanilla filled the air.

A pat of butter melts onto the stack like silk, soaking into the porous surface. Maple syrup—real maple syrup, not the fake stuff—drizzles over the top, cascading down the sides like liquid gold.

He pulls thick-cut applewood-smoked bacon from the fridge. No flimsy, cheap slices—these have substance. He lays them in the cast-iron skillet, and immediately, the kitchen is filled with the sharp, intoxicating crackle of sizzling fat.

Most people would stand over it, anxiously poking and flipping. He doesn't need to. He knows exactly when each strip reaches peak crispiness. The moment before it crosses into being overcooked, he transfers them onto a paper towel, the edges curling just slightly. A perfect balance of crunch and chew.

Crisp bacon, fluffy eggs, thick-sliced sourdough toast rubbed with garlic and toasted to perfection. He set the table with deliberate care—pancakes drizzled with real maple syrup, bacon arranged like an artist's brushstrokes, coffee rich and dark.

[Bella POV]

I groaned, rolling onto her side, my head fuzzy, her mouth dry. God, how much did I drink last night?

And then it came to me.

The bar. The stress from work making that first drink go down too easily. Then another. And another. The drinking game, the guy with sharp eyes and a quiet confidence.

Their conversation had been playful, full of teasing smiles and drunk laughter, and at some point, I had decided I wasn't going home alone.

I made the first move.

A mix of embarrassment and amusement flickered through her, but there was no time to dwell on it. The smell was stronger now, pulling me from the bed.

I grabbed my sheets and got up and wore my t shirt and shorts as she stumbled toward the kitchen, still groggy, still shaking off last night's haze.

And then I saw him.

I blinked, still half-convinced that I was dreaming.

David—because I remembered his name, at least—stood there like he belonged, casually setting the last piece of toast in place. He was dressed now, though his shirt sleeves were rolled up, and his jacket was draped over the back of a chair.

And he was wearing my apron.

It was ridiculous. A tall, broad-shouldered guy standing in my kitchen, looking all too natural in an apron that had pink flowers on it. But what really got me wasn't just the sight, it was the smell.

Golden-brown pancakes stacked high, butter melting into the fluffy layers. The rich, smoky scent of bacon. Eggs cooked to perfection, their yolks gleaming in the light. Toast that looked like it had come straight out of a high-end café, crisp and warm, with just a hint of garlic. And coffee. Freshly brewed.

My stomach growled before I could notice.

David looked up then, meeting my eyes. There was a little awkwardness in his expression. Then he quickly gave a smile a real natural one.

"Morning," he said, voice even, like waking up in a stranger's bed and cooking a real breakfast was the most natural thing in the world.

I ran my hand through her messy hair. "You... cooked?"

David gestured toward the table. "Figured it was the least I could do."

She crossed her arms, shifting her weight to one leg. "You sure you're not a chef?"

He smirked slightly. "Nah. Just a guy who knows his way around a kitchen."

Bella eyed the food again, torn between being impressed and suspicious. "Okay, but why does this look like something out of a food magazine?"

David shrugged, grabbing two plates and setting them down, "Didn't feel right just leaving. Besides, you had the ingredients."

That answer didn't explain much, but at this point, my hunger won.

I hesitated for a second, then sat down. David took the seat across from me, pouring me a cup of coffee before fixing his own.

The first bite of pancake practically melted in my mouth. I let out a quiet groan of appreciation before I could stop myself. "Okay. Damn. This is good."

David simply sipped his coffee, "Glad you like it."

I pointed my fork at him. "No, seriously. You could totally open a restaurant. Wait you aren't a restaurant owner are you?"

He had a amused smile and shook his head, taking a bite of bacon.

I took another bite, then narrowed my eyes at him. "Wait. Do you even remember my name?"

There was a brief pause before David set his fork down and replied. "Bella."

I said. "Huh. Thought you'd say 'uh…' first."

His smirk deepened. "Perfect memory."

I snorted. "Right. Sure."

Silence settled between them and somehow, it wasn't all that bad.

Finally, I finished my breakfast, leaned back in the chair, exhaling. "So… what happens now?"

David finished the last sip of his coffee, "Actually I don't know. This is kinda new to me and my first time too."

"You are kidding right?" I asked, a little shocked.

"So you are saying I.. I was your first?" I asked. "But last night your actions.... didn't seem to be like."

He just shrugged and I could tell he was embarrassed.

I studied him for a second. This guy didn't seem like the type to lie. He had just… made me the best breakfast. And somehow, that was more surprising than if he had snuck out.

I gave him a grin. "Well, considering you fed me the best breakfast of my life, I think I owe you a proper goodbye."

David just stood there his head slightly tilted with a puzzled look.

I stood up, stretched, pulled him down and pressed a quick, teasing kiss to his cheek. "Thanks for the pancakes, mystery man."

David was stunned first and then he chuckled and replied. "Anytime."

I walked him to the door, and just before he stepped out, I crossed my arms and gave him one last once-over.

Just as I was about to turn he spoke, "Nos vemos, Bella. Cuidate." and left.

I stood frozen for a second.

Nos vemos, Bella. Cuidate.

The words rolled off his tongue smoothly, effortlessly.

See you, Bella. Take care.

My lips parted, but I didn't know what to say. He was already gone, disappearing down the hallway.

A guy who cooked like a Michelin-star chef. Who had a perfect memory. Who, apparently, had never done this before.

I ran a hand through my hair, still groggy from sleep, still processing the past twelve hours of my life. The drinks. The bar. The boldness I didn't usually have.

I turned back into my apartment, my gaze falling on the table. Our empty plates sat there, a reminder of this morning actually happened.

With a sigh, I grabbed my coffee and took a sip, staring out the window.

"Seriously," I muttered to myself. "What the hell just happened?"

And why did I kind of want it to happen again?

To Be Continued.....

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Dear Readers,

My first time writing this type of scene. Please bear with it if it's cringy or incorrect.

I kindly request you all to forgive me.

Your truly, 

The Author.

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