Recipe for Disaster
When you found the account, you almost clicked away immediately.
The username was ridiculous—burntbutmakeitfashion—and the profile picture was just a black screen with tiny white text that read:
“if the garlic burns, start over and rethink your life choices.”
You snorted loud enough to startle yourself.
It was two-thirty in the morning, your editing software had crashed twice, and you’d fallen down a rabbit hole looking for small cooking creators to feature in your monthly recommendation post. Most late-night food accounts blurred together after a while: overly aesthetic lighting, soft jazz, hands sprinkling parsley like they were casting spells.
This one opened with someone aggressively whisking eggs while muttering:
“Who invented schedules that start at six a.m. and end at midnight? I just want to talk.”
Your eyebrows lifted.
Interesting.
The creator never showed his face. Only his hands. Sharp movements. Expensive knives. Annoyingly perfect technique.
And commentary.
Constant commentary.
“Today we’re making kimchi fried rice because therapy is expensive.”
“Whoever said cooking is relaxing has never cleaned oil splatter off a white shirt.”
“This plating looks ugly but I’m emotionally attached to it now.”
You laughed through the entire seven-minute video.
Then you checked the comments.
Most people were focused on the food.
You, unfortunately, had zero self-control.
dramatic plating for fried rice is insane behavior btw
You hit send before thinking too hard about it.
The creator replied twelve minutes later.
presentation matters. unlike your manners.
You burst out laughing so hard you nearly dropped your phone.
And somehow, that became a thing.
—
Your channel was significantly larger than his.
Not huge-huge, but enough that people recognized you in grocery stores sometimes. You built your platform on recipes that actually worked for normal people—easy meals, practical techniques, realistic kitchen disasters left intentionally unedited.
Your audience liked honesty.
Apparently, so did he.
Every time burntbutmakeitfashion uploaded, you appeared in the comments like a menace.
why is this plated like it’s competing for custody rights
your knife skills are suspiciously professional. who are you hiding from.
that sauce consistency is perfect unfortunately. hate when that happens.
And every single time, he answered.
i cook under immense emotional pressure.
you say “suspiciously professional” like i committed tax fraud.
thanks. your approval means nothing to me. upload schedule still terrible btw.
You had no idea why the exchanges became the highlight of your week.
But they did.
Sometimes he replied within minutes. Sometimes hours later at absurd times—three a.m., four-thirty, five-ten.
Always sarcastic.
Always weirdly funny.
And slowly, without noticing, your comments became less teasing and more conversational.
One night, after he uploaded a ramen recipe with broth he’d apparently simmered for nearly ten hours, you commented:
this feels emotionally concerning. are you okay.
His response came three minutes later.
no ❤️
You stared at the screen longer than necessary.
Then typed:
understandable. add more green onions next time.
—
Three months into your strange internet friendship, your subscribers started noticing.
“Why do you flirt with that faceless cooking guy in every comment section?”
“I’m invested in whatever enemies-to-lovers thing this is.”
“Just collab already.”
You ignored all of them.
Mostly because there was no way to contact him outside the comments.
The account followed nobody.
No linked socials.
No name.
No face.
Just food and bitterness.
Which honestly made him more entertaining.
One night during a livestream, one of your viewers asked if you’d ever reveal your favorite small creator.
You grinned while chopping scallions.
“There’s this one account,” you admitted. “He’s annoyingly talented and emotionally unstable about plating.”
Your chat exploded immediately.
“THAT GUY AGAIN.”
“OH MY GOD.”
“YOU LIKE HIM.”
You rolled your eyes hard enough to hurt.
“I do not like him. He’s just funny.”
You paused.
“Also his recipes are really good.”
The chat somehow moved even faster.
“THAT’S BASICALLY A LOVE CONFESSION.”
“YOU’RE BLUSHING.”
“I AM NOT.”
You absolutely were.
—
Jay never expected the comments to become personal.
At first, you were just some random viewer with zero respect for his artistic vision.
Then he started looking for your username before checking anything else.
Which was embarrassing.
Deeply embarrassing.
Because he was an idol with millions of followers across multiple platforms, and somehow the most exciting part of uploading secret cooking videos was waiting to see if yn_cooks would bully him in the comments.
He blamed exhaustion.
And curiosity.
Mostly curiosity.
You were funny in a way that felt effortless. Your own videos were warm and chaotic and real. No fake reactions. No exaggerated influencer personality. When recipes failed, you showed it. When things burned, you laughed.
He watched one video.
Then five.
Then accidentally spent an entire hotel night binge-watching your content while sitting cross-legged on his bed eating convenience store chips.
He never commented.
That felt too dangerous.
But he subscribed from a private account.
Just in case.
—
“Jay.”
He blinked.
“Hm?”
Sunghoon stared at him from across the dorm kitchen.
“You’ve been smiling at your phone for like ten minutes.”
“I have not.”
“You literally just giggled.”
Jay looked horrified.
“I do not giggle.”
“You do now apparently.”
Jay immediately locked his screen.
“It’s nothing.”
Sunghoon narrowed his eyes.
“You’re hiding a girlfriend.”
Jay scoffed too quickly.
“I barely have time to sleep.”
“Then why do you look happy?”
That shut him up.
Because honestly?
He didn’t know.
—
The livestream collaboration invitation arrived on a Tuesday afternoon.
You almost rejected it.
Not because you didn’t want to do it—but because livestream collabs were exhausting. Half the time the chemistry was awkward, and cooking while entertaining an audience felt like juggling knives.
Then your manager casually added:
“It’s with ENHYPEN.”
You paused mid-sip.
“…Oh.”
“Specifically Jay.”
You nearly inhaled iced coffee into your lungs.
Because unfortunately, you knew exactly who Jay was.
Everybody did.
Sharp wit. Dry humor. Passionate about food enough that clips of him cooking constantly went viral.
You’d even seen edits.
Not intentionally.
Your algorithm betrayed you sometimes.
Still, that didn’t mean anything.
Lots of idols cooked.
Lots of people had knife skills.
Lots of people were dramatic.
Right?
Right.
—
Jay found out about the collaboration two days later.
And froze.
“Wait,” he said slowly. “Her?”
The producer nodded.
“You know her channel?”
He coughed.
“Yeah. I mean—people know her.”
Sunoo looked up instantly.
“Oh, you watch her too?”
Jay’s voice climbed half an octave.
“I don’t watch her.”
Sunghoon deadpanned from the couch, “You literally made her spicy noodles at two a.m. last week.”
Traitor.
Jay considered murder briefly.
—
The day of the livestream started chaotically.
You arrived twenty minutes early because anxiety demanded punctuality, only to discover half the staff still setting up cameras.
The kitchen studio was gorgeous though—bright counters, hanging copper pans, enough ingredients to feed a small village.
You were inspecting the pantry when someone behind you said:
“You’re stealing ingredients already?”
You turned.
And momentarily forgot how language worked.
Jay looked unfairly good in simple black clothes and a denim apron, dark hair pushed away from his forehead while he carried a tray of vegetables.
In person, he somehow seemed taller.
More intimidating too.
Until he smiled.
Then he just looked amused.
You recovered quickly.
“Depends,” you said. “Are you emotionally attached to these scallions?”
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
“Very.”
“Oh. Then definitely stealing them.”
His laugh caught you off guard—bright and sudden and much warmer than expected.
The staff visibly relaxed watching the interaction.
Good chemistry.
Easy banter.
Perfect.
Neither of you noticed the producer grinning like she’d orchestrated fate itself.
—
The livestream started smoothly.
Too smoothly.
Which should’ve been suspicious.
“You guys will each create a comfort food dish,” the host explained cheerfully. “And the audience votes for the winner.”
“Define comfort food,” you said immediately.
Jay pointed at you.
“That’s important actually.”
“Something meaningful,” the host answered.
Jay nodded thoughtfully.
You narrowed your eyes.
“You already know what you’re making.”
“Maybe.”
“That’s annoying.”
“It’s called preparation.”
“It’s called favoritism.”
“You’re just intimidated.”
You gasped dramatically.
The chat exploded.
“THEY’RE FLIRTING.”
“OH THIS ENERGY IS CRAZY.”
“jay looks so happy???”
You ignored all of it.
Mostly.
Cooking with Jay turned out dangerously fun.
You worked well together instinctively, slipping around each other in the kitchen without colliding, trading sarcastic remarks while prepping ingredients.
“You cut onions weird,” he informed you.
“You plate food like it pays taxes.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It made sense emotionally.”
He actually laughed hard enough to lean against the counter.
And something about causing that reaction felt weirdly satisfying.
Halfway through the stream, you reached across his station to steal sesame oil.
His hand caught your wrist automatically.
“Again?” he said.
“You were hoarding it.”
“You used half mine already.”
“False allegations.”
“You’re literally holding it.”
You glanced down.
“…That proves nothing.”
The chat moved so fast it became unreadable.
Jay was still holding your wrist.
Neither of you seemed to notice immediately.
Then your sleeve slid back slightly.
Revealing your smartwatch screen.
With a notification.
From YouTube.
Specifically:
burntbutmakeitfashion uploaded: midnight cream pasta because sleep is temporary
Jay froze.
You blinked.
His eyes slowly lifted to yours.
No way.
No actual way.
Your mouth fell open first.
“…You?”
His expression mirrored your shock exactly.
“You’re yn_cooks?”
The room went silent for approximately one second before absolute chaos erupted.
The staff screamed.
The chat exploded.
The host nearly choked laughing.
You stared at Jay while your brain desperately replayed every interaction you’d ever had online.
Every teasing comment.
Every sarcastic reply.
Every time you’d called his plating emotionally repressed.
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
Jay looked equally stunned.
“You said my risotto looked like it had commitment issues.”
“BECAUSE IT DID.”
“That was you?!”
“You told me my upload schedule was a public health concern!”
“Because it was!”
He suddenly laughed.
Not polite laughter.
Not idol-camera laughter.
Real laughter.
The kind that bent him forward slightly while disbelief flashed across his face.
“You’re kidding,” he said breathlessly.
“No, you’re kidding! I’ve been fighting with you online for months!”
“Fighting?” he repeated. “That’s what you call it?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it again.
Because unfortunately, the way he was looking at you suddenly felt less teasing and more—
Oh.
Oh no.
The chat absolutely noticed too.
“THE TENSION.”
“THIS IS INSANE.”
“THEY LOOK LIKE THEY JUST FOUND OUT THEY WERE MARRIED.”
“I NEED A 16 EPISODE DRAMA IMMEDIATELY.”
Jay was still smiling at you.
Softly now.
Almost disbelieving.
“You really hated my plating.”
You pointed accusingly.
“Your tiny herb garnishes made me irrationally angry.”
“They were aesthetically balanced.”
“They were emotionally pretentious.”
“That’s not a real criticism.”
“It is in my heart.”
He shook his head, still grinning.
Then glanced at the sesame oil still in your hand.
“…You can keep it.”
Your stomach betrayed you immediately with an embarrassing little flip.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
—
After the livestream ended, neither of you left.
The staff eventually drifted out one by one while equipment got packed away around you.
You sat cross-legged on the counter eating leftover fried dumplings straight from the tray.
Jay leaned beside you sipping sparkling water.
“You know,” you said eventually, “I genuinely thought you were like…a forty-year-old divorced chef.”
He looked offended.
“Forty?”
“The emotional damage in your captions suggested life experience.”
“I’m actually insulted.”
“You’ll survive.”
He nudged your knee lightly.
“You thought my recipes were good though.”
You glanced at him.
“…Yeah.”
His expression softened.
“I liked your videos too.”
Something warm spread slowly through your chest.
“You watched them?”
“Most of them.”
“Most?”
“All.”
You stared.
“Jay.”
“What?”
“That’s psychologically concerning.”
He laughed quietly.
“You started it.”
“How?”
“You commented first.”
“That was a mistake.”
“Mm. Sure.”
The silence afterward felt comfortable.
Easy.
Which somehow scared you more than awkwardness would’ve.
Jay tapped his fingers against the water bottle before speaking again.
“So…”
You looked over.
“So?”
“Now that I know you’re the comment menace ruining my notifications…”
You gasped.
“…would it be weird if I asked for your number?”
Your smile arrived before you could stop it.
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Will your plating continue to be insufferable?”
He grinned immediately.
“Absolutely.”
You sighed dramatically while pulling out your phone.
“Recipe for disaster.”
“Probably,” he agreed easily.
Neither of you seemed particularly concerned about it.
