The tiny bell above the café door chimed softly as you stepped inside, brushing the spring chill from your coat. The smell of fresh bread, roasted meats, and something sweet — maybe honey — wrapped around you like a warm blanket. It wasn't crowded, just a few locals hunched over steaming mugs and plates of food, the low hum of conversation buzzing in the background.

Behind the counter, standing with perfect posture, was Pan Yinhu.

He was hard to miss — a tall, burly panda bear with glossy black-and-white fur and a strong, round belly that peeked proudly from his apron. His dark eyes, serious and focused just a second ago, widened the moment they landed on you. For a split second, the usually reserved Pan Yinhu forgot to breathe.

He quickly composed himself, smoothing down his apron and straightening his shoulders. But inside, he was a mess — a swirl of nervous excitement and sudden, stubborn determination. This wasn't just another customer. This was someone special.

Without a word, Pan Yinhu turned toward the kitchen, his mind racing. I need to cook something unforgettable. Something from the heart. His memory — sharp as always — pulled the ingredients he needed in perfect order. Flour, butter, honey, a touch of warm spices. He moved with careful precision, putting everything he knew into the dish. His soft, round belly bounced slightly with each step, but he didn't care if he looked clumsy — he had a mission now.