The Marine Headquarters' canteen kitchen was always filled with a comforting aroma.
Aunt Maggie, wearing a checkered apron dusted with flour, was staring intently at the caramel apple soufflé inside the oven. Her hand unconsciously tapped the enamel bowl with a long-handled spoon. This was the third "secret dessert" she had developed for Renzo, and its success depended entirely on the next three minutes.
Suddenly, the oven's indicator light began flickering, and the numbers on the temperature dial jumped up and down. Aunt Maggie's heart leapt into her throat.
A soufflé couldn't stand unstable heat, just a few degrees off, and it would collapse into mush. She stomped her foot anxiously and reached for the control knob when a lazy voice called from behind her:
"Don't touch it."
Aunt Maggie turned around and saw Renzo leaning casually in the doorway, hands in his pockets, his half-lidded eyes clearly drawn there by the sweet scent.
Today, he was wearing a clean white shirt, his hair surprisingly neat, but he still looked half-asleep, that ever-present drowsiness clinging to him.
"Commodore Renzo! You're just in time! The oven's acting up again!"
She pointed at it as if seeing a savior. "If it keeps fluctuating like this, the soufflé will be ruined!"
Renzo walked over at his usual unhurried pace. He didn't touch any buttons; he simply stared at the flickering light, frowned slightly, and said softly, "Stop flickering. Hold the temperature steady."
His voice was quiet, but it carried something… almost magical.
In the next second, the oven's light stopped flashing, the temperature dial stabilized perfectly at 170°C, and even the airflow inside seemed to calm down, no longer surging or weakening.
Aunt Maggie leaned closer to look. Through the glass, she could see the soufflé rising beautifully, its golden surface slowly oozing amber-colored caramel. It looked absolutely flawless.
"Oh my heavens…" she whispered, covering her mouth as her eyes filled with awe.
"Your ability's amazing! Last time you fixed the heating coil, and now you're stabilizing the temperature, you're better than our repair crew!"
Renzo didn't reply. His gaze had already shifted to a glass bowl on the counter, a batch of vanilla custard cream, releasing a light milky fragrance.
He dipped a finger into it, tasted, and frowned. "Too sweet. Add half a spoon of salt."
Aunt Maggie nodded hurriedly, grabbing the salt shaker and mixing as fast as she could, afraid she might forget his instruction a second later.
She had long since realized that Renzo's taste in desserts was extremely particular.
The lava in his chocolate cake had to "cling to the spoon but not to the mouth."
Matcha mousse sweetness needed to "just barely cover the bitterness."
And he could taste when a fruit wasn't fresh. Last time she'd used strawberries that were two days old, he'd taken one bite and set the spoon down, saying, "No aroma."
Ding!
The oven chimed. Aunt Maggie carefully opened it and pulled the soufflé out.
The golden crust trembled lightly. A single tap with a spoon cracked it open, releasing a rush of warm apple-cinnamon filling mixed with silky custard.
She plated it neatly, dusted sugar on top, and handed it to Renzo. "Try it! This time, I reduced the sugar by two grams and added a bit of lemon juice to cut the eggy smell."
Renzo took the plate and, instead of sitting down, leaned lazily against the counter to eat.
The moment his spoon sank into it, the crisp shell, airy interior, sweet-tart apple filling, and smooth custard all came together perfectly. The temperature was just right, warm, not scalding, each bite carrying the care of the cook.
For once, Renzo slowed down, eating quietly before finally saying, "Not bad. Next time, cut the apples smaller and simmer them five minutes longer."
"Got it! I'll fix that next time!" Aunt Maggie beamed and quickly jotted it down in her notebook.
It was her special "Renzo Recipe Log", filled with notes like "Use 70% dark chocolate," "Chill mousse for at least four hours," and other details. She treated it even more seriously than the dietary restrictions of the Admirals.
From that day on, Aunt Maggie began delivering to Renzo.
She knew he was too lazy to go to the canteen, so every afternoon at three, she would appear outside his dorm building, holding a food carrier.
Inside was always a new "secret dessert": sometimes mango mochi with a soft, delicate skin; sometimes sea-salt caramel pudding with a crisp sugar layer that cracked audibly; and sometimes savory snacks like cheese-and-bacon scones, just so he wouldn't get tired of sweets.
But this afternoon, Aunt Maggie came a bit late, looking anxious, holding not just the food box but also a lump of dough.
"Commodore Renzo, could you help me? This dough's taking forever to rise! I've got to bake bread for the new recruits tonight. If it doesn't rise soon, we won't make it in time!"
Renzo opened the food box. Today's dessert was tiramisu, dusted perfectly with cocoa powder.
He took a spoonful, savoring it, then glanced at the dough. "You want it to rise faster?"
"Yes, please!" she nodded eagerly.
Renzo stepped closer, didn't touch it, just looked down and murmured, "Don't be lazy. Rise faster."
A magical thing happened.
The fist-sized dough began to swell before their eyes, its surface smoothing out as it doubled in size. When Aunt Maggie poked it, it bounced back slowly, perfectly fermented.
She leaned in to smell it; the yeast aroma was rich but not sharp, even better than naturally fermented dough.
"Good gracious…" she breathed, trembling as she lifted it.
"That's not an ability, that's divine blessing! Commodore Renzo, you have to visit the kitchen more often!"
Renzo didn't reply; he was already finishing his tiramisu and wiping his mouth. "Tomorrow, I want chestnut Mont Blanc."
Renzo always made an exception for good food; it was one of the few things worth a little effort.
"No problem! I'll buy fresh chestnuts first thing tomorrow!"
Aunt Maggie clutched the dough and ran back toward the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "Commodore Renzo! I'll save you a roast chicken leg tonight! Just marinated, smells amazing!"
Renzo waved lazily and headed back to his dorm.
He washed the food box and set it by the door, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Before he crossed worlds, he'd been too lazy even to go downstairs for takeout.
Now someone cooked and delivered desserts just for him, even asking what he'd like next.
This feeling of being thought of wasn't so bad after all.
Soon enough, Aunt Maggie became Renzo's biggest fan.
In the canteen, whenever someone praised her desserts, she'd proudly declare, "These are all made to Commodore Renzo's taste! If he says it's good, that means it really is!"
And if a rookie ever asked, "What's so special about that always-sleeping Commodore?"
Aunt Maggie would glare and snap, "What do you know! Commodore Renzo's saved our kitchen more than once! Without him, you wouldn't even have warm bread to eat!"
Over time, everyone in the canteen knew Aunt Maggie's "secret menu" was for Renzo alone, and that the so-called "Sloth God" Commodore was actually the kitchen's hidden savior.
Whenever Renzo did appear in the canteen, soldiers would instinctively give him a seat, and the servers would always add an extra spoonful of meat, afraid he hadn't eaten enough.
That evening, Aunt Maggie indeed saved him a roast chicken leg, golden and crispy on the outside, tender and juicy inside, brushed with honey mustard glaze, his favorite blend of sweet and spicy.
As Renzo sat in the corner eating, Aunt Maggie came over with a brand-new notebook.
"Commodore Renzo, I've decided! From now on, I'll create a new dessert for you every week! What do you think? Next week will be a Black Forest cake, with cherries soaked in kirsch, guaranteed delicious!"
Renzo bit into the chicken leg, replying between chews, "Don't make it too complicated."
"It's no trouble! Making sweets for you is my pleasure!"
She laughed brightly and handed him a cup of warm milk. "Just heated, goes perfectly with the chicken leg."
Renzo took it and drank. The warmth slid down his throat, spreading through his chest until even his heart felt warm.
Outside, the setting sun bathed the canteen windows in gold. The sea breeze drifted in, salty but pleasant.
For the first time, Renzo thought, staying at Marine Headquarters wasn't so bad.
He had a soft bed to sleep on, endless desserts, and someone who remembered his preferences, even creating new sweets just for him.
All these "troublesome" daily things were slowly weaving into a net of warmth, holding this lazy man securely within it.
"Next week's Black Forest cake," Renzo said softly, setting down his cup, "use less kirsch."
"Got it! Whatever you say!"
Aunt Maggie wrote it down immediately, her smile brighter than the sunset.
As moonlight crept up the canteen windows, Renzo finished his meal and strolled back to his dorm.
He lay on his bed, but didn't fall asleep right away. For some reason, his mind wandered, wondering what next week's Black Forest cake would taste like.
'This feeling of looking forward to something… didn't seem so bad.'
As long as he didn't have to make it himself, of course.
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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