An Old Sweet Story About Rebirth

The moment Tyler laid eyes on his sister, he stopped short.
Emily was... transformed.

Gone was the tangled-haired little gremlin in oversized hand-me-downs. In her place stood a bright, sprightly girl with a neat fringe, a denim skirt, and a clean-cut T-shirt with a subtle print. Still Emily—but suddenly… older. Not quite a middle schooler, but not far off either. She glowed, practically bouncing in place as she told Tyler all about her afternoon.
She waved her arms as she spoke, her excitement bubbling out in breathless sentences. Shopping. Haircut. The snack with the rainbow sprinkles. Something about a bracelet. A stuffed animal. She was so full of life that for a moment, Tyler could only blink.
“I—wow,” he muttered, brushing his fingers through her soft bangs. “You look great.”

Then, turning to Lin Zhiyao, he gave a quiet, sincere, “Thank you.”
Zhiyao smiled, all ease and good humor. She waved him closer with a casual flick of her hand. When Tyler stepped in, she leaned slightly, lowering her voice with a conspiratorial grin.
“Don’t thank me,” she said. “You should thank Shane.”

Tyler blinked.
“I only agreed to come because he bribed me,” she added, sing-song and amused. “He’s more generous than you think when he wants something.”
She nudged him gently with her elbow. “So? You gonna thank my dumb cousin or what?”

Tyler hesitated. That small favor Shane had asked for… it hadn’t seemed like anything at the time. Not really.
But thank him?
How do you thank someone who has everything?

What could he possibly offer Shane that he didn’t already have?
Zhiyao was watching him with a twinkle in her eye. “Emily says you’re a great cook.”
Tyler’s eyes widened.

“Why not make dinner?” she said, shrugging. “Something spicy. Shane loves spicy food. Doesn’t ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) care what it is, so long as it burns.”
That caught Tyler off guard.
“Spicy?” he repeated. “Like… really spicy?”

Zhiyao winked. “The hotter the better.”
Tyler’s expression shifted. The hesitation faded. A spark lit behind his eyes.
That, he could do.
“I can cook,” he said. “Yeah. I can do that.”

—
The ride home was quiet, the kind of peaceful silence that settled in after a long, spent day.
Tyler and Emily sat in the back. She had leaned against him the moment the car pulled out of the plaza, her head nestled beneath his chin. Within minutes, her breathing had evened out into the slow rhythm of sleep.

In the front, Shane drove with one hand on the wheel, the city’s lights casting shifting patterns across the windshield. Dusk had deepened into full night.
They were almost home when Tyler spoke.
“…Shane?”

“Mm?”
Tyler’s voice wavered, small. “Thanks. For today.”
“Don’t mention it,” Shane said. “It was nothing.”

Tyler swallowed. His palms were damp. Every part of this next sentence felt foreign, like he was stepping off a ledge into water he couldn’t see the bottom of.
“If you… if you don’t mind…” He paused. “Would you want to, um, come over for dinner? I’ll cook.”
It was barely more than a whisper. Two short lines. But for Tyler, those words were monumental. An invitation—that simple, terrifying act of asking someone to come close.

If Zhiyao hadn’t suggested it, he wouldn’t have dared.
As soon as the words left his mouth, his breath caught. He braced for the awkward silence, for a polite excuse, for that inevitable distance.
Shane didn’t hesitate.

“Sure,” he said. “When?”
Tyler blinked, stunned. “…Tomorrow night? Before Emily starts school?”
Shane glanced sideways at him. “Sounds good.”

Just like that.
Tyler let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, a slow exhale that eased some invisible knot behind his ribs.
“…Okay,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

And though he didn’t say it, something in him—a small, raw part—felt almost proud.
He’d invited someone in. And they hadn’t said no.
Emily had always believed—without question—that her brother’s cooking was the best in the world.

He could take the cheapest cuts, the saddest-looking vegetables, the stuff the grocery store was practically paying them to take—and still somehow make it taste like home. But truthfully, Tyler didn’t know that many recipes. His skills weren’t refined. He’d never had the luxury of learning much more than survival.
He’d grown up cooking with discounts in mind. Onions, cabbage, a slab of tofu if they were lucky. Sometimes, on a good day, a bit of pork. What he was good at—was heat.
Spice was cheap. Especially in Milltown. Dried chilis, red and crinkly and potent, were sold in bulk for next to nothing. Add enough of them, and any bland mess could feel like a meal. That was his trick: make it spicy enough, and it would fill the belly fast.

Lucky, then, that Shane supposedly loved spicy food.
At the farmer’s market that morning, Tyler had picked out the brightest, shiniest little red chilies he could find. He also grabbed a whole bundle of fresh green ones—Sichuan-style, new season. Hot. Aromatic. The real deal.
If this didn’t impress him, nothing would.

—
Shane wrapped up work earlier than usual. He shut his laptop with a sense of finality, brushed off every meeting request that had come in after five, and personally picked up the mango mille crêpes he’d ordered ahead.
He didn’t even let his driver come.

Two months. It had been two months since he first met Tyler. And tonight… he’d get to sit across from him at a real table, sharing real food, cooked by his hands.
The thought made his lips twitch, involuntarily, into a smile.
As he pulled into the lot beneath Tyler’s apartment, a message popped up from Zhiyao:

Zhiyao:
Emily said you’re eating dinner together tonight? Hehe. Try not to faint from excitement~
Shane stared at the message.
Zhiyao:
Honestly, you wear those sunglasses like you’re in a spy movie. You ever get tired of pretending to be made of stone in front of him?

He didn’t answer. She sent back a gremlin emoji.
He stepped out of the car with a faint frown, something in him twitching—an unplaceable sense of foreboding.
And it hit hard the moment the front door opened.

Tyler’s face was the first thing he saw—those clear, dark eyes lifted toward him with a mix of hope and shyness.
“I just finished cooking,” he said. “I heard you liked spicy food. Is it… is it spicy enough?”
The smell hit next.

A tidal wave of pepper oil, chili smoke, and raw fire smacked Shane in the face like a battering ram. It made the air itself feel textured. Sharper. Meaner. More violent than the corner hotpot joint downtown.
He hesitated on the threshold.
But Tyler was looking at him—hopeful, unsure, biting down the edge of embarrassment—and that look broke something open in Shane’s chest.

He smiled. “Yeah. Smells amazing.”
Tyler blinked. He seemed surprised.
Shane added, softer this time, “It really does.”

He’s actually smiling, Tyler thought, half in disbelief. He really likes chili that much?
—
In truth, Shane hated spicy food.

He was the kind of person who ordered “no heat” and meant it. He’d spent most of his life with a palate that leaned toward subtlety, clean broths, things that didn’t leave your lips tingling like they’d been set on fire.
It was only in their past life—when Tyler had started cooking for him—that he’d trained himself into a tolerance. He never said anything. He just kept eating. From “mild” to “maybe just the broth” to finally, “sure, split the pot.” All because Tyler liked it. All because he’d smiled when Shane didn’t complain.
Now, sitting at this little table, surrounded by dishes that shimmered with chili oil and green heat, he reminded himself that he’d lived through worse.

Emily was all energy, chattering as she pushed her favorite dish toward him. “Try this one first! It’s his best!”
Tyler, quiet, waited for his reaction.
Shane reached out and picked up a piece of chili chicken, glistening with fresh red and green peppers.

It looked… lethal.
He took a bite.
One second. Two.

He froze.
Then he clamped a hand over his mouth.
Tyler straightened up, eyes wide. “It’s bad?”

Shane shook his head furiously. His other hand shot up in a shaky thumbs-up.
He tried to say “Delicious,” but his tongue had gone numb. His eyes watered. The top of his head tingled like someone had pressed a live wire to his scalp.
Every nerve screamed.

He chewed. Swallowed. Barely.
Then stood abruptly. “Excuse me—just need to take a call. On the balcony.”
And he walked—fast.

Emily frowned. “Is it just me, or did he look like he was dying?”
Tyler stared after him, suddenly uncertain. “I… I thought he liked spicy food.”
“Zhiyao said so,” Emily said. “Said he loves it.”

—
When Tyler stepped out onto the balcony with a cup of water and a roll of paper towels, Shane was gripping the railing with both hands, head bowed like he was trying to keep the world still.
“…Shane?”

He turned.
Tyler froze.
The sunglasses were gone.

He had always assumed Shane wore them to hide something—an old injury, a scar, maybe something to do with his eyes. But there was nothing wrong. Nothing marred the skin or cast shadows.
What he saw was sharp, handsome, cut like sculpture—and eyes, deep and narrow and so human it made Tyler forget to speak.
The corners were red.

Not just from the chili.
“…You okay?”
Shane didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him—looked through him, almost—like he wasn’t seeing just this moment but all the weight around it.

Tyler had never seen an expression like that before.
It wasn’t anger. Or discomfort. Or embarrassment.
It was something else.

Something he didn’t have the vocabulary for.
He stepped forward, raising the cup.
“Do you… want water?” he asked softly.

And Shane, after a long pause, finally nodded.
“Was that… the chili?” Tyler asked, lifting the water bottle with both hands. “I think… maybe I overdid it. Here—drink some?”
Shane took the bottle like a lifeline and chugged half of it in one go.

Tyler winced. “Sorry. I didn’t realize it’d be that spicy…”
Shane waved a hand, trying not to let his tongue flop uselessly in his mouth. “It’s nothing. The chilies in Milltown—way more intense than the ones back home.”
He paused. Swallowed. Then added with grim determination, “I used to love spicy food in Haicheng.”

Tyler watched him guzzle the rest of the water, and despite the apology still lingering in his throat, his lips began to twitch.
Shane caught it instantly. “Are you… laughing at me?”
“What? No!” Tyler said, way too quickly.

Shane raised an eyebrow, gesturing vaguely at him. “Your mouth’s doing a thing.”
Tyler instinctively brought his hand to his cheek. “…Am I…?”
Sure enough, he was smiling. Really smiling—genuine and open and just this side of smug.

He wanted to stop. Really, he did.
But instead of stopping, the laugh broke loose. Light. Irresistible.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped between breaths, “sorry, I just—”

He couldn’t stop.
That open, unguarded joy curled around Shane like a heat all its own.
Shane did his best to look wounded. “You find my suffering funny?”

Tyler shook his head, still laughing. “It’s just—you, showing up all serious, sunglasses and everything, like some kind of mafia boss with backup—and then one bite of chili and it’s like, game over.”
Shane groaned. “I’m not a mafia boss.”
He said it as he reached over, brushing his fingers ever so gently across Tyler’s forehead, pressing in just slightly, as if trying to nudge him from a daydream. A touch so small, so careful, it might’ve gone unnoticed—if Tyler hadn’t paused, just for a second, at the warmth of it.

But he didn’t pull away.
He just leaned his elbows on the balcony rail beside Shane and tilted his head. “I can make something else. Something mild?”
Shane’s heart skipped. “I’d like that.”

Tyler nodded and turned to go. Then stopped, turning back with a curious look. “I always figured the sunglasses were hiding something. Like, I don’t know… a scar or something.”
Shane looked back at him, wind teasing at the loose strands of his hair.
“I had a sensitivity to light for a while,” he said evenly.

Tyler considered that. “That still a thing?”
Shane smiled faintly. “Almost gone.”
Tyler blinked, then said with total sincerity, “Good. You’ve got a nice face.”

Then walked away.
Shane stood in the quiet dusk, alone again on the balcony, the wind cool against his face.
And suddenly, his heart was anything but cool. It felt untethered, as if something inside had lifted just slightly off the ground.

—
Tyler made him scrambled eggs with onions.
Nothing fancy. Nothing plated. The flavor was… fine.

Objectively, it was a mediocre dish.
But sitting at that little square table, across from Tyler and beside a chattering Emily who was relaying the drama of her summer class in breathless detail, Shane could’ve sworn he’d never had a better meal.
He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to.

He listened—really listened—to Emily babble about her classmates, to Tyler occasionally chime in with a quiet “really?” or a dry “sounds like trouble.” He watched Tyler eat fast and without ceremony, adding chili to everything, even the plain rice. He watched Tyler go back for seconds. Watched the tension leave his shoulders little by little, the way it always did when he was focused on making sure Emily had enough to eat.
And no matter how many times he tried to look away, his eyes kept slipping back to Tyler.
Until Tyler looked up, caught him.

“Wait—are the onions spicy too?”
Shane blinked. “What? No.”
Tyler squinted. “Then why are your eyes red again?”

Shane cleared his throat. “Uh. Residual trauma from the chicken.”
Tyler stared at him, then cracked a grin. “That bad, huh.”
And then, as if this were normal, he launched into a joke.

It wasn’t a very good joke.
Something about a man from Haicheng ordering mild hot pot and crying anyway because the pot had memory—it had soaked up the spice from all the red broth before.
It was a dumb, half-mumbled joke with no real punchline.

But Shane laughed.
Laughed until his shoulders shook, until he had to cover his face, until his eyes stung—not from the onions this time, not even from the ghost of the chili, but something warmer, something heavier and thinner and deeper.
Something Tyler didn’t see.

Something only Shane knew.
A laugh that, in another lifetime, might never have existed.