FRANK ZHANG

The kitchen smells like sugar and butter long before anything has even gone into the oven.

Warm lamplight fills the small room, reflecting softly off polished countertops and the glass jars stacked neatly along the shelves. A gentle breeze drifts in through the open window above the sink, carrying the distant sounds of camp life—laughter from the cabins, the clank of dishes being cleaned in the pavilion, the faint rustle of the forest surrounding Camp Half-Blood.

But inside the kitchen, everything feels calmer.

Slower.

Frank stands at the counter, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, carefully measuring ingredients with the quiet concentration of someone who genuinely enjoys what they’re doing.

And Frank Zhang really does.

Cooking—especially baking—has always come naturally to him.

There’s something soothing about it. Something steady. Recipes follow clear instructions, measurements matter, and the results are predictable in a way that quests and battles rarely are.

It’s a kind of control he appreciates.

Especially lately.

The son of Mars stands in front of a large mixing bowl filled with flour, sugar, and a few other ingredients already stirred together. A wooden spoon rests beside the bowl, dusted lightly with flour.

Across from him—

You sit on the counter.

Not helping.

Not really.

Your legs swing lazily over the edge of the marble surface, and a large recipe card rests loosely in one of your hands. The other hand holds a whisk.

More specifically, a whisk that you’ve clearly been licking batter off of for the past several minutes.

Frank notices.

He doesn’t say anything about it.

Mostly because you look far too content to interrupt.

A small smear of batter sits near the corner of your mouth, and you’re studying the recipe card with the kind of intense focus that suggests you’re absolutely not reading it carefully.

Frank smiles to himself.

He slides a spatula into the bowl, scraping along the sides as he mixes the dry ingredients together.

Then he glances up at you.

You’re still licking the whisk.

Your attention is clearly divided between the recipe and the bowl of batter sitting nearby.

Frank chuckles quietly.

“Okay,” he says, stirring the mixture once more before pausing.

Then he tilts his head toward you slightly.

“How much butter?”

You look up immediately.

For a brief moment, your expression is perfectly blank.

Then you glance down at the recipe card in your hand.

Frank watches as your eyes scan the instructions.

Slowly.

Suspiciously slowly.

He crosses his arms lightly against the counter.

“You are reading the recipe, right?”

You raise an eyebrow at him.

“Of course I am.”

Frank glances pointedly at the whisk.

You glance at the whisk too.

Then back at him.

“That’s unrelated.”

Frank laughs softly.

“You’ve eaten half the batter.”

“That’s quality control.”

“Uh-huh.”

You wave the whisk slightly in the air.

“Someone has to make sure it tastes good.”

Frank shakes his head, still smiling.

“You know it’s raw batter.”

“And?”

“You’re not even waiting until the cookies are baked.”

You shrug casually.

“Impatience is part of the experience.”

Frank chuckles again before looking back at the bowl.

“So,” he repeats patiently, “how much butter?”

You finally glance at the recipe card again.

Your finger traces the instructions.

“Two sticks,” you say.

Frank reaches for the butter sitting on the counter and unwraps the paper slowly.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t guess?”

“I didn’t guess.”

Frank raises an eyebrow.

You pause.

“…Probably.”

Frank laughs under his breath and tosses the butter into the bowl anyway.

The mixture softens immediately as he begins folding the ingredients together.

You watch him for a moment.

Frank works with surprising precision.

He measures carefully.

Mixes slowly.

Never rushing through the process.

Your legs swing slightly over the counter’s edge as you continue watching him.

“You’re weirdly good at this,” you comment.

Frank glances up.

“At baking?”

“Yes.”

He shrugs modestly.

“My mom used to cook a lot.”

The brief mention of his family passes quietly between you.

Frank doesn’t dwell on it.

Instead, he keeps stirring the batter until the mixture smooths into a thick, creamy consistency.

You lean forward slightly, watching the bowl.

Your attention shifts immediately.

Frank notices.

“No.”

You blink.

“What?”

“You’re not eating more batter.”

You point at the whisk.

“I already finished this part.”

Frank slides the bowl slightly further away from the edge of the counter.

“You’ve had enough.”

“Frank.”

“No.”

“Frank.”

“You’re not supposed to eat the whole batch before it’s baked.”

You lean down slightly, peering into the bowl like you’re studying it.

“I could just have a little.”

Frank gives you a look.

You smile innocently.

“I’m supervising.”

“You’re stealing ingredients.”

“That’s a harsh interpretation.”

Frank sighs dramatically, though the smile on his face never fades.

“You’re impossible.”

“Yet you invited me to bake.”

“I invited you to help.”

You hold up the recipe card.

“I’m holding the instructions.”

Frank glances at the card.

“You read two lines.”

“That’s plenty.”

He laughs again, shaking his head as he grabs a baking tray from the cabinet.

The tray clinks lightly against the counter as he sets it down beside the bowl.

You watch him scoop portions of dough onto the tray with careful spacing.

“You take this very seriously,” you say.

Frank pauses briefly.

“Baking is important.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

You tilt your head.

“Why?”

Frank thinks for a moment as he finishes placing another spoonful of dough.

Then he shrugs.

“…Because people are happy when they eat cookies.”

You smile slightly at that.

Frank notices.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He narrows his eyes slightly.

“You’re plotting something.”

“I’m not plotting.”

“You’re definitely plotting.”

You lean back slightly on the counter again, hands braced behind you.

“Maybe I’m just enjoying the show.”

Frank raises an eyebrow.

“The show?”

“You baking.”

“That’s not a show.”

“It is if I’m watching.”

Frank huffs a quiet laugh and finishes filling the tray before sliding it toward the oven.

The oven door opens with a soft metallic creak.

Warm air spills into the room as he carefully places the tray inside.

The door shuts again with a quiet click.

And just like that—

The hardest part is done.

Frank brushes flour from his hands and leans back against the counter.

You hop down from the counter a moment later.

The room smells even sweeter now as the cookies begin baking.

For a few moments, neither of you say anything.

The quiet is comfortable.

Frank glances at you again.

“…You still have batter on your face.”

You wipe your mouth instinctively.

“Where?”

He gestures vaguely.

“Right there.”

You wipe again.

Frank shakes his head and steps closer.

“Hold still.”

His thumb brushes gently across the corner of your mouth, wiping away the small smear of batter you missed.

The motion is brief.

Soft.

You blink at him.

Frank clears his throat slightly, stepping back again.

“…There.”

You smile.

“Thanks.”

Frank glances toward the oven timer ticking softly on the counter.

Then back at you.

“…Next time,” he says, “you’re actually helping.”

You grin.

“No promises.”

Frank sighs.

But the smile returns anyway.