Flynn woke to the sting of sunlight pouring through the massive glass wall of the bedroom. When he tried to sit up, he immediately clutched his head—the throbbing pain and slight dizziness from the hangover forcing a low groan out of him.
As the haze slowly lifted, the realization hit him: he was in Dylan's apartment. He couldn't remember how they got here. The only thing clear in his foggy memory was their last conversation on the rooftop... right before he passed out.
"Ah, shiiit..." he muttered as the scene from last night flashed vividly in his mind. Embarrassment washed over him, but beneath that, he couldn't deny the strange comfort he felt from Dylan's words.
Once Flynn had composed himself, he got out of bed and headed to the bathroom to wash his face. After freshening up, he stepped out of the room—still drying his face with the towel slung over his shoulder—only to freeze in shock at the sight that greeted him.
The kitchen looked like a storm had ripped straight through it. Cooking utensils were scattered everywhere. An iPad sat propped up on the counter, still playing a cooking tutorial. Judging from the chaotic mess—different ingredients strewn around, half-used, unopened, abandoned—Flynn could tell Dylan didn't just attempt to cook once. It looked more like multiple failed tries that ended with him giving up and starting something else... again and again.
"What the fuck happened here?" Flynn blurted out, stunned.
"Oh, you're awake. How long have you been standing there?" Dylan said, appearing from behind the counter. "I made soup. They say it's good for hangovers. Sit down—this is almost done!" he added, sounding ridiculously excited.
Flynn let out a long sigh and shook his head, as if silently wondering why he ever thought moving into Dylan's apartment was a good idea. He walked straight to the living room, turned on the TV, and tried to keep himself entertained while waiting for Dylan to finish whatever catastrophe he was cooking in the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, Dylan finally emerged, proudly carrying a steaming pot. He set it on the table, grabbed two bowls, and motioned for Flynn to sit. The moment Flynn settled into his seat, Dylan eagerly ladled soup into his bowl and placed it in front of him with a flourish.
"Tadaaaaa!" Dylan announced, practically glowing with excitement.
Flynn swallowed hard.
It was supposed to be chicken macaroni soup—but everything about it looked... wrong. The broth was bright red instead of creamy white, thanks to what looked like an entire pack of hotdogs dumped into the pot, each piece lazily cut in half. The cabbage slices were massive—almost leaf-sized—and the soup was watery, clearly drowned in too much water and starved of milk. Whole peppercorns floated ominously on the surface like tiny mines waiting to explode.
"You sure this isn't poison?" Flynn muttered, eyeing the bowl like it might start moving on its own.
"What do you mean poison? I worked really hard on that," Dylan said proudly, puffing his chest a little.
Flynn hesitated, unsure whether to risk his life or hurt Dylan's feelings. Dylan, however, had zero patience. Before Flynn could decide, Dylan grabbed a spoon, scooped up a full serving, blew on it carefully, and—without warning—shoved the spoon straight into Flynn's mouth.
Flynn didn't even have time to react. One breath he was sitting still, the next he was choking on a spoonful of ambush soup. The moment the taste hit his tongue, his body rejected it with pure instinct—he spat it out immediately and coughed violently, scrambling toward the fridge to grab water.
"What? What's wrong?" Dylan asked, genuinely confused.
"Is this soup or seawater?" Flynn croaked, clutching his throat.
Dylan frowned, grabbed a spoon, and took a sip himself. The second the broth touched his mouth, his eyes widened—and he, too, made a desperate sprint toward Flynn to get water.
Flynn couldn't stop laughing at Dylan's expression. "You didn't even taste what you were cooking? It's so salty!"
"It tasted fine earlier," Dylan protested weakly, tears gathering in his eyes as he continued chugging water like his life depended on it.
When Dylan finally calmed down, he looked around the kitchen and felt his heart sink. The mess was... catastrophic. A true crime scene of ingredients and failed attempts.
"I'll just order food," Dylan sighed, grabbing the iPad and placing an online order. When he was done, he started cleaning up the chaos he created. Even though Dylan was still full of energy—trying to act normal despite the disaster—it was obvious he was disappointed with the results of his first attempt at cooking for Flynn.