* * *

A recipe isn’t exactly that hard to follow. Add all the dry ingredients in one bowl, then the wet in another, mix them all, stuff it in a pre-heated 180°C oven and wait for half an hour. Yet, for some inexplicable, most probably a stupid—almost idiotic—reason, Irene cannot get herself to create an edible, palatable carrot cake.

Is it the weighing scale? The air disturbing the gravity fields, messing up an inch of a gram in the measuring? Or is it how you are supposed to fold the flour into the fluffied…? Fluffified? Fluffed egg mixture? How is one to fold the flour appropriately? Must one be so delicate just to concoct a delectable dessert full of carrot calories—if carrot calories were even that significant?

It must be the work of the corrupt cooking device. The first one came out too dry, almost a brick that Joy decided to use it as a throwing device to implement misery upon one clueless bear-like woman. The second one, raw in the middle, obviously inedible that Irene had to throw it away. Third one should be the charm, right?

Irene unknowingly wipes floured hands on her forehead. Baking is hard. Irene finds a newfound respect for Wendy. A baking goddess. Golden, magical hands. Irene feels a guilt at complaining for a tummy that sagged because of a succulent carrot cake baked by one baking goddess. Wendy likes to bake. She bakes loads of mouth-watering munchies, from muffins to cookies to cakes to puddings, for Irene—the members…well, everyone, really. Wendy can start a bakery with that amount of skill.

So it is just right for Irene to repay the favour. Especially on Wendy’s birthday.

Irene is the leader of the group. The mother of three. The wife of a resident hyung—almost a wife. Pretention never hurt. She has always considered Wendy the other half of her other half. The partner to her crimes. The full stop to her sentences. Wendy is the sun to her moon! Wait—that’s a song, isn’t it?

It is Irene’s responsibility, as the counterpart to a fatherly role gladly taken upon by Wendy, to bake her a birthday cake. A carrot birthday cake. Because carrot cakes have sort of become their thing.

Unfortunate, though. Carrot cakes are complicatedly convoluted to create. Rocket science gone wrong. Why didn’t something simpler become their thing…like pancakes? Or banana cakes? There are the carrots to shred; the flour to sieve; the cream cheese to whip with the butter for icing. It’s all too much for a pair of tiny hands with no less than two hours until the person she is baking for returns home.

She tries a different recipe this time, one without the need to fold the dry into the wet. She instead mixes them all in the mixer Wendy had bought on her first pay cheque, the salary from their legacy bop of 2015, Ice Cream Cake. Hopefully, this carrot cake will leave a legacy itself. She pours the mixture in the tray and in it goes in the fiery pit of an uncooperative Kenwood oven.

Irene makes the cream cheese icing as she waits for the cake to cook. She hears the three children bid their goodbyes. A schedule on a Sunday. Recording for a variety show. You girls better get that airtime!

Wendy has a schedule too. On her 23rd birthday. Singing in a studio for a movie soundtrack. She is happy to have received the offer, a year into their debut. A great opportunity. An honour. But doing the recording on her birthday? Irene feels upset. Her pretend-wife never gets to see her parents, having holidays with the managers she sees almost every day. Now, working on her special day.

Motivation strikes Irene and she wants this cake to succeed. She wants to make Wendy feel special on her special day. To give something back to a girl who never finds a fault at embodying generosity. To reciprocate the love she abundantly shares to everyone around her, even a stranger.

Irene hears the ding, smells the aroma of cinnamon and vanilla wafting through an oven door opened. The cake smells luxurious, heavenly. Cooked. Baked to almost perfection. She pokes a toothpick to confirm. Clean. She lets it cool down before cladding it with the creamy cream cheese icing. Tall candles are pierced into the spongy cake above the words, ‘Happy Birteuday Wendy!’

She breathes a relief. The cake is done. The seaweed soup is warm. She places both on the dinner table. She cleans up the kitchen then herself, dressing in laundered, freshly ironed clothes. She wears the silly pointy hat with the pink tinsel decorative, the nylon string a bit of a nuisance to her skin. But Wendy loves the silly things, finds them amusing and funny. Irene will do anything to see Wendy smile.

Irene turns off the lights. It’s only ten in the evening but she needs to pretend, to make Wendy believe she is already asleep. Otherwise, the surprise will not be much of a surprise. It’s not long now before Wendy gets back. Ten or so minutes? Irene can wait.

There are beeps from a pin being entered, a door being unlocked. Irene finds herself catching her breath, adrenaline swimming along in her blood, all throughout her body. She sees the silhouette of Wendy’s figure lit upon by the automated security lights of the hallways. Wendy’s body slumps, the work for the day evidently a heavy encumbrance on her shoulders. Irene stands still at the side. Wendy reaches for the light and it turns on—

“SURPRISE!”

Wendy jolts then catches herself with the door. hangs open then it closes, a furrow on her brow.

“Happy Birthday, Wendy!” Irene exclaims. She places the silly hat on Wendy, a blue tinsel on hers. Her favourite colour.

Wendy doesn’t know what to say. The words a turmoil in her exhausted brain. She manages to stutter, “I-I thought…asleep, are you not? The lights—”

“Come, come! Oh, but close your eyes first!”

“Why would—”

“Just do it, pleaaaaaaaase?”

How can Wendy say no to those pleading puppy dog eyes and that frowny pout? She helplessly lets herself be led. Irene’s warm, soft hands enclose her own. A pair of evil shoes nearly trips her but Irene catches her.

Irene shifts and embraces Wendy from behind. Leading her in this position seems to be a much…safer way. It isn’t definitely because Irene likes to hug her pretend-wife while the little kids are out. Nope. Definitely not.

Wendy feels Irene’s hold on her arms. Irene’s chesticles rubbing against Wendy’s back, sending a shiver down her spine then a flush of warmth, of red to her face. She feels Irene’s breath on the tips of her ears. The words were a whisper yet it is an alarm for Wendy. Her brain has overheated.

“Open them.”

Wendy opens her eyes. They slowly adjust to the cheap fluorescent lights of their dorm. She spots them. The seaweed soup. The cake—birthday cake. The words, ‘Happy Birteuday Wendy!’ in orange icing.

Wendy cannot help but laugh. How cute. “Uhm…you know you spelt ‘Birthday’ wrong.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Wendy turns around and returns the embrace. She pulls Irene closer as she says, “Yeah, you did. It’s spelt, B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y.”

“I did all of this and that’s all you notice?”

“Hey,” Wendy taps the lips of her love that protruded, “that pout is illegally cute. Don’t sulk. I appreciate. I’m…touched.”

“Did you just hesitate?”

“I believe it’s called a dramatic pause.”

“So…you like it?”

“I do. I love it. Thank you. For doing all this—everything. You know you didn’t have to.”

“I know but…it’s your birthday. I wanted to celebrate—for us to celebrate it. Wendy,” Irene cups Wendy’s face. She stares into those eyes and hopes that Wendy will stare into hers, will see into her the sincerity of her words when she says, “you deserve this. You who gives and shares and loves with no expectations, no catch… You deserve this—at least this.”

There is a gentle silence that wraps around them. Wendy takes the time to weigh in the words, to appreciate each syllable, each letter that came from the lips of her lover. She sees the purity in Irene’s intentions. She feels the…love.

And so she answers the words with a kiss.

It’s more of a peck. Lips upon lips. Gentle, sweet. Wendy smiles as she pulled back but Irene pouts at the distance.

“That’s it? That’s all I get?”

“You…want more?”

“I missed you…”

“I missed you too.”

“Then…?”

“What?” There’s a sheepish smile on Wendy’s face. A bashfulness that results from too much sentimentality. Quite ironic for someone who is so caring. It frustrates Irene. Why does she have to be the initiator of the intimacy all the time?

But she brushes the frustration away. Does it matter now? The two of them. On their own. Home alone…together.

Irene almost pounces. Her lips smack into Wendy’s lips. A kiss so desperate so deep, so hot, so rushed and messy that it is as if Irene hasn’t kissed Wendy for a long time.

Wendy is surprised by the strength of the squishy woman in front of her. She feels herself overpowered. The couch catches them both, Irene sitting on Wendy’s lap, ravaging her lips, her neck. Wendy finds it a struggle to recuperate, let alone to keep up with Irene’s…passionate aggressiveness.

“Mmmrene…just…mmm…”

“Shhh…don’t talk.”

Wendy smiles. Oh yeah? I’m the strong one here. Wendy stands up, asserting her power, supporting an Irene whose legs are intertwined around Wendy’s waist. They move and Wendy winces at the bite on her lip. A sorry slips out of Irene’s lips and Wendy smiles at that. It is a smile between lips that still touched. The back of her feet hits the table. Wendy’s balance fails to cooperate and so both ladies fall to the floor. The nudged table spills the cake and it gets squashed by both of their weight. The soup a mess on the beige tiles.

Their laughter fills the room. The fall hasn’t stopped them. Instead, it has encouraged them, heightened their desires, their urges.

Wendy feels the sludge of crushed carrot cake on her hands, the icing on her arms, on her hair. Then she feels a set of clumsy fingers on her blouse, moist lips on bare skin. Wendy gasps. Wait!

Irene looks up from the ed blouse. Her lips were almost there! “You don’t want it? We can stay above torso for tonight? I just thought—well, since it’s your birthday and all…”

“The carrot cake.”

“What about it?”

Wendy presses a cream-covered palm on Irene’s face. Wendy chuckles at the successful ambush, at the flabbergasted face in front of her. The expression hits Wendy as cute and she leans over, the cream on Irene’s cheek. “Mmm…it’s good.”

There is an outline of a pout amidst the cream that covered Irene’s face. An impression of distress. Irene is not one to let things go without a vengeance so she retorts back with wiping cream on Wendy’s face. Wendy almost inhales it.

“That’s what you get!” Irene says, sticking a tongue out in mockery.

Wendy scoffs. “Oh, is this what I think it is?”

“Bring it on, Son Seungwan.”

“Hah. You’ll regret starting this.”

Irene scrambles from Wendy’s body. She runs for her life, squealing, a handful of mushed up carrot cake on her hand. She dodges the flying carrot cake ball and it splats on the kitchen window. Irene counterattacks and it fails, hitting the floor instead of its intended target.

Wendy runs now and chases after Irene. She is ready to smash the cake that is on her hands onto Irene’s face. A sinister smile of mischief paints Wendy’s lips as she heads for the perpetrator of the carrot cake war. She sees Irene cornered so with agile feet, she grabs her pretend-wife by the waist.

Irene tries to break free, squiggling out of the hold. But Wendy is strong. Damn those biceps. Wendy is seriously playful now. So competitive! Irene squiggles and as she sees the handful of carrot cake nearing her already creamed face, she feels the panic. She starts to fear for her life so she says, “Wendy! I’m your unnie!”

Not the unnie card! Wendy has no other choice but to give up. She drops her shoulders in defeat and loosens her hold on Irene but not completely letting go. She keeps it as a hug—a back hug—and burrows her face onto Irene’s neck.

Irene takes Wendy’s hand with the carrot cake and eats off of it. Just a bite. The carrot cake came out right. Nice and sweet and soft and delicious. “You should have a taste, Wendy.”

Wendy takes a bite. Mmm. It is good. Such a waste. It’s everywhere now. On the floor, on the walls, on their bodies. “We should clean up. Before Seulgi, Joy and Yeri gets home.”

“Hmm…yeah,” Irene agrees. There is a cheeky smile on her lips when she continues, “We can start with each other.” She points at her cheek—her cheek.

Wendy squeezes Irene tight, laughing at the implied suggestion. She kisses the spot where Irene has pointed. “Oh, you.”

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A/N: If there are any grammatical errors, please let it slide. I couldn't be arsed to proof-read it properly. (It's almost 2AM when I published this)