The sky is pleasantly clear, a blue expanse marred only by the occasional sparse cloud. Sehun pauses by the curb, suitcase by his feet, and inhales deeply. He picks up the faint scent of exhaust, notes of dulled perfume on a woman passing by, and wisps of hope. Just twenty-one years young, Sehun’s pulled up his roots from his hometown of Seoul, and along with his dreams of achieving success in the culinary world, he’d booked a one-way ticket to Paris. Armed with nothing but decent English, basic French and a suitcase filled with clothes and pieces of memories, Sehun’s one foot into an unknown future.

Exhaling, he tightens his hold on his suitcase and extends a hand; seconds later, a cab pulls up right in front of him, and the driver steps out. A flood of French spills out into the air between them, and Sehun can barely pick up any words that are being said. He gets the gist, however, and with a well-planned response, his suitcase is loaded into the boot of the car with no trouble whatsoever.

The ride didn’t take as long as Sehun thought it would, and he’s jostled out of his daydreams when the cab jerks to a halt in front of a nondescript apartment building. Sehun pays the driver, complete with a decent tip, and watches the cab drive off before turning around and peering up the front of the establishment. There are a row of buttons by the glass doors, and Sehun has to check the crumpled slip of paper in his hands just to make sure he’s got the right apartment number.

“Hey, Yifan –”

“Sehun!” The speaker crackles with static but the buzz of the door unlocking cuts through easily. “The door’s open; come on in!”

The weariness in Sehun’s bones diminishes considerably the second Yifan opens the door to his apartment. A familiar face smiles down at him, and Sehun feels his own mouth curve upwards.

“Long time no see,” Sehun says, grinning. He offers Yifan his hand, but his childhood best friend simply crushes Sehun’s cheek against his shoulder.

“Come on in,” Yifan says, voice muffled by Sehun’s hair. “Got your room all ready for you; I cleaned for the first time in a few weeks just for you – you should be flattered.”

Laughing, Sehun waits for Yifan to head back inside his apartment before he follows. The wheels of his suitcase snags on the threshold, but a good heave later and they come free.

“Take a nap if you need one; I’ll bring you out for dinner. There’s a really nice place down the street that I think you’ll like – they’re known for their cheesecake.”

With a wink and a clap to the shoulder, Yifan leaves the room and shuts the door behind him. Sehun takes a moment to just stop and stare at everything around him – this is where he’ll be living for the foreseeable future, and it’s probably best he gets right into it. So he sets to work unpacking his suitcase, and it doesn’t take long before his clothes are hung up and folded. A couple of framed photos find themselves propped up on a small desk in the corner, and Sehun sets his favourite stuffed toy down on the bed. Ducking into the bathroom for a quick shower, Sehun emerges ten minutes later with a cloud of steam and feeling slightly more rejuvenated.

“Let me at that cheesecake,” Sehun announces, pulling on a shirt as he heads into the living room. Yifan glances away from the TV screen and chuckles.

“Alright – let’s go, then. You can come home and make a better one; if you think you can.”

Offended, Sehun steps on Yifan’s toes and relishes in the cry of pain.

“If I think I can? I know I can – cheesecakes are my specialty.” With that, Sehun exits the apartment, Yifan hobbling along behind him.








Setting the cheesecake pan into a large baking dish, Sehun fills the dish with a few inches of water before pulling a sheet of foil across the top of the pan.

“A water bath gives the cake extra creaminess and smoothness,” Sehun says, sliding the dish into the oven slowly, “and it’s something not a lot of people bother to do. Makes a hell of a lot of difference, though.”

He sets the timer and leans against the counter. Yifan’s seated by the dining table, and he’s got a look of curiosity in his eyes.

“What?”

Yifan shrugs, “Nothing. It’s just – it’s tough out there, you know? In the culinary world. A lot of people come here with big dreams and aspirations, only to leave with barely anything left in their hands. I don’t want to see you sad and hurt and –”

“Don’t worry about me,” Sehun interrupts, “I’m tough. I can deal with any obstacles that come my way. I’m here to succeed and I’m not going home with anything less.”

Yifan swallows and nods. “Okay. I believe in you.”

Sehun looks down at his feet; running his bottom lip through his teeth, he repeats his own words to himself in his mind – he needs to convince himself that he’ll succeed before he can convince anyone else.

“So,” Yifan says, “what else did the restaurant’s cheesecake fail to deliver on?”

Grateful for the change of subject, Sehun straightens slightly and takes the chance to launch into a small speech.

“They didn’t use enough sour cream; it lacked tanginess. The cheesecake didn’t have enough time to cool off, either – caused cracks in the surface…”








The weeks following Sehun’s arrival in Paris are almost horrifyingly hectic. From the moment he wakes until the minute he returns home, Sehun’s out and about looking for pastry schools that are both affordable and able to provide him with invaluable training. When he’s not looking for schools, he’s looking for delicatessens and pâtisseries that are willing to hire an amateur pâtissier.

He needs to find a job as soon as possible – the money he had brought with him from Seoul is slowly but surely running out, and he can’t keep relying on Yifan to bring food home.

“Don’t worry too much,” Yifan speaks up one day, as Sehun places a bowl of steaming beef stroganoff in front of him one night. Sehun may be passionate about baking, but he’s more than adequately skilled in the cooking front too, if he can say so himself.

“It’s been three weeks,” Sehun replies, trying not to let any hint of desperation seep into his voice. “And all I’ve been getting are flat-out rejections or silence.”

“If you’re worrying about finance,” Yifan says, swallowing a mouthful of food, “you really don’t have to. I’m financially stable enough to –”

“It’s not just that,” Sehun begins, but Yifan holds up his fork and effectively cuts him off.

“Just calm down a little, okay? You forget that I know you incredibly well – at this point, you’re just feeling like you’re living off of me and I know you don’t like relying on someone to that extent. But I’m your best friend, and it’s my responsibility to help in times of need. Just keep cooking me yummy food and I’ll be more than glad to fund them.”

Sehun, although he doesn’t want to, finds himself smiling quite widely by the time Yifan stops talking.

“Okay,” Sehun agrees, “I’ll take it a little easier.”

Yifan grins and says, “I knew you’d listen to me. So, what’s for dessert?”








Sehun finally catches a break two weeks later. A small, fusion restaurant twenty minutes away from the apartment agrees to give Sehun a trial run as their pastry chef. On his first day, Sehun wakes up two hours before his alarm and spends most of that time staring up at his ceiling.

Yifan drops him off at the restaurant with a hearty hug and a heartfelt you can do it, I believe in you! It takes all of Sehun’s willpower to not chase after Yifan’s car when it pulls away and rolls down the street. Turning, Sehun takes a deep, shaky breath and steps inside.

The first thing he sees is the manager knee deep in bags of flour.

“Sir? Would you like me to help?”

“Ah! The newbie! Yes, that would be great,” the manager pants, his English thickly accented. “The shipment came a little earlier than expected, and so my stock boy isn’t here.” Frowning, he bends to lift a bag, stumbling back a few steps as he does so. Sehun does the same, and follows the manager to the stockroom.

He’s clearing the last bag when the employee door opens and someone enters. Sehun assumes it’s the stock boy – whom he has already met on the day of his interview –, and simply calls out a greeting as he heaves the bag of flour up onto a shelf.

“Hello,” comes the reply. The voice is curious, deep, and unfamiliar.

“Ah! Jongin! Good, good; meet Sehun, our new pâtissier. Sehun, this is Jongin, our head chef.”

“Nice to meet you,” Sehun says, offering up his hand and bowing slightly when Jongin accepts it.

“Likewise,” Jongin replies, gaze hovering on Sehun’s face for a moment before he lets Sehun’s hand go.

“So – is he any good?” Jongin’s question is directed at the manager, and Sehun stiffens as he waits for the reply.

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” With that, the manager exits the kitchen and heads to the front of the restaurant. Sehun hears orders being barked at the small group of waiters and waitresses not long after.

“Welcome,” Jongin says, and inclines his head towards a clean and bare work station. “You can take that station. The items on the menu don’t change often, so familiarise yourself with the ones that are on there and make sure you make them well. We may be small but we do pretty good for ourselves.”

Picking up a menu that happens to be laying around, Sehun scrutinises the dessert list. Ice cream in the three basic flavours (that they have brought in – Sehun caught a glimpse of the tubs out front earlier), Devil’s food cake, fruit tarts (strawberry, raspberry, blueberry), almond pudding with lychee, banana flambé, and the Thai favourite – mango with sticky rice. Talk about fusion.

The restaurant only opens for lunch and dinner, so Sehun has the whole of morning to prepare the dishes. He should get cracking though, just in case something goes wrong and he ends up being short for time. Deciding to start on the pastries first, he heads back into the pantry to get all the ingredients he needs.

A little over three hours later, he’s slicing up the last mango, and everything in the display shelves look good enough to eat – something Sehun prays will happen. Jongin, shelling his last batch of prawns, looks quite impressed, and Sehun fights back a proud grin.

“You’re surprisingly good at multi-tasking,” Jongin comments, dropping a pink prawn into a bowl.

“I’ve had to juggle college along with baking school, so I’ve had to learn,” Sehun replies, walking up to Jongin’s counter. “Would you like some help?”

Nudging the bowl of unshelled prawns over, Jongin gestures for Sehun to join in. “Sure, thanks. My sous chef left me a couple of months back and it’s been hectic, to say the least. The pastry chef before you didn’t seem to know his left from his right, and when you have to help with someone else’s preparations too…”

“I promise I won’t ask for your help unless I absolutely need to,” Sehun says, shaking the shell of a prawn off his finger.

“I’ll hold you to that.”








For the next few weeks, Sehun works at a constant high. He comes into work feeling energetic and determined, and he works with the vigour of a hundred young men. Sehun doesn’t like to think of baking as work – to him, it’s art, and every single pastry he produces is most definitely a work of art. During the weekends when the restaurant’s closed (the owner is quite family centric, apparently, and likes the idea of her staff spending time with their families), Sehun cooks up a storm at home in preparation for the next work week. Yifan swears his jeans have gotten tighter around the waist, but Sehun simple places more desserts in front of him with a wide smile.

Every day, Sehun readies himself for bad news from a customer. With every dish he puts out into the display shelf, he wonders if he should’ve added a little more salt or let it sit in the oven for just another minute longer. But every day, his fears never come true. Empty plates are the only things that return to him, and sometimes, the wait staff will send him encouraging smiles as well.

Whenever he has time, Sehun joins Jongin at his station, where Jongin will talk him through the process of preparing the appetisers and main courses. The menu generally stays the same, but Jongin will occasionally put out a special when he feels like it. On those days, Sehun will work a little harder to finish earlier, for watching Jongin cook and learning from him is something Sehun’s come to enjoy.

Jongin comes to rely on Sehun’s help around the kitchen, and as Sehun learns from him, he begins to learn from the pastry chef as well.

“If you stay past your trial period, Sehun,” Jongin starts, sprinkling thyme into a stew and giving it a well practiced stir, “then you should start creating your own dishes.”

“I already have a list ready to go,” Sehun grins, and Jongin snorts.

“I said, if you stay.”

Sehun sobers up slightly at that, and spreads some flour over his workstation. Jongin turns the fire down and lets the stew simmer – walking over to Sehun’s side, he nudges the pastry chef’s shoulder and gestures to the waiting dough.

“Hey, I have faith that you’ll stay, okay? You need to have faith in yourself, too. Now get moving, I want to learn something before that dough crumbles into bits in your hands.”








“Mr. Oh, as of today, your trial run is over,” the manager says, and Sehun chews on the inside of his cheek nervously as he waits for the manager’s final decision regarding his future in the restaurant. Jongin’s off to the side, leaning against his now empty work counter. It’s a Friday night, and the establishment is closed for the day.

Sehun watches the manager shuffle several sheets of paper, and he prays to the heavens that he’s done well enough over the past 8 weeks to secure a job.

“You’ve done remarkably well – dessert sales are at the highest they’ve ever been, and there have been a couple of food blogs that have made positive posts about your work and the restaurant in general. If you are willing, of course, we’d be delighted to keep you on our payroll and in the kitchen. In fact, the owner sends her personal regards.” With that, the manager holds out a new contract, and points at the dotted line expectantly.

The breath Sehun had been holding finally escapes his lips and he turns his wide-eyed gaze away from the manager and towards his fellow chef. Jongin has a small smile on his face, and he mouths a simple good job at the young pâtissier.

“It’d be nice not to have to get used to another pastry chef,” Jongin adds, out loud.

Barking out a laugh, Sehun takes the manager’s proffered pen and signs with a flourish.

“Congratulations,” Jongin says a while later, tone sincere, as he closes the back entrance and locks up. “I’m glad to see my predictions came true.”

The soft glow from the streetlamps illuminate Jongin’s face when Sehun turns to look at him. The streets are quiet, 2 A.M. much too late for most to be out and about.

“Thank you,” Sehun says. “I’m glad, too.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee? I’ll treat.”

“Coffee may not be the best idea at this hour, but I’ll take some food.”

Jongin simply smiles, and motions for Sehun to follow him.








“Cheesecakes are my favourite things to bake,” Sehun says ardently, reaching out for a handful of raspberries for a taste test and managing to get a dollop of whipped cream on his cheek at the same time. Jongin reaches out and swipes it off absently. Sehun doesn’t even seem to notice as he chews on the berries.

“Lots of bakers hate dealing with cheesecakes because they take a relatively long time to prepare, and even if you have everything measured out perfectly, something is always bound to go wrong. The flavour of one cheesecake can be an absolute hit to some, or it can be a complete disaster to others, so pastry chefs in many restaurants end up not caring how it turns out. As long as it looks good and tastes decent, they’ll send them out.”

Grabbing a small saucepan, he empties out two small boxes of raspberries inside and follows it with ⅓ cup of powdered sugar.

“But you see, because cheesecakes are so volatile, they are also unique. I never bake the same cheesecake twice. Today I added a little bit of mint and nutmeg, and the next time I make one, who knows what I’ll add?”

½ of water is added to the saucepan, and Sehun looks over at Jongin, fingers poised over the handle of the pan.

“Would you like to do this?”

“I’ve made raspberry sauce before, you know,” Jongin comments lightly, but reaches for the pan anyway. Sehun passes him the potato masher and smiles.

“I know. I just don’t quite feel like mashing berries today.”

“What do your parents think of you chasing the culinary dream?”

Sehun’s hands fly around the counter as he whisks together the sour cream topping effortlessly.

“My dad left when I was just a young boy, so his opinion really doesn’t mean much to me. My mum, however, is very supportive. My brother’s an aspiring fashion designer, so my mother has more than enough experience in dealing with children that strive for creativity and head toward uncertain roads. She believes in dreams, though, and she believes that many, if not all, dreams can be achieved if one just strives for it.”

Jongin, hand busy whisking the raspberry sauce, looks up at Sehun.

“My parents never cared for my passion in the culinary arts. My father’s a surgeon and my mother’s a businesswoman, so the path I’ve chosen isn’t… in their range of accepted careers. I’ve never had professional training before working here because they refused to fund culinary school. They’ve never asked me to cook for them, either – the last time I’ve cooked in their kitchen was when I was fifteen. A year before I left for Paris.”

Sauce done, Jongin removes the saucepan from the heated stove and sets it aside to cool.

“It sounds stupid, I know. Whenever I tell someone –”

“It’s not stupid,” Sehun counters, stretching cling wrap over the bowl of cream and walking over to the refrigerator to deposit it. “It’s admirable. You’re admirable, Jongin.”








Two weeks later, as they’re walking home after a day of work, Jongin turns to Sehun with a conflicted expression on his face.

“Do you think I’m ready to apply for culinary school?”

The glow of the streetlamps wash over Jongin’s face as they walk past it, and Sehun’s eyes light up similarly.

“I think it’s been a long time among, Jongin.”

With that, he gives Jongin’s shoulder a little nudge and bids his friend goodbye. Jongin watches as Sehun disappears into his apartment building and lets out a stream of air.

“Okay then.”








It’s the day before Jongin’s entrance exam for culinary school, and Sehun’s offered to let Jongin use him as a guinea pig. He’d also volunteered Yifan after a few moments of deep thought.

The second Sehun steps into the apartment, he wrinkles his nose. Jongin does the same a second later.

“Why does it smell like –”

“Yifan!”

A bang sounds from somewhere in the living room, and Yifan’s long frame slides into view, socked feet first.

“Yes?”

“What’s with the candles?”

“I didn’t have air freshener, and you said you were bringing a friend over, so I –”

“The house doesn’t even smell bad,” Sehun sighs, and toes off his shoes.

Indignant, Yifan trails after Sehun as the latter strides into the kitchen, shopping bags in hand. Jongin follows in amusement.

“Well forgive me for wanting to make this apartment seem presentable for your friend,” Yifan retorts.

“All you did was light candles,” Sehun says flatly, “great job.”

Yifan shoves his elbow into Sehun’s side and walks away, satisfied with Sehun’s wheezing.

“He’s here to prepare for his entrance exam, goddamnit!” Sehun yells into the living room. “This isn’t a date!”

Jongin looks away at that and busies himself with emptying out the contents of the shopping bags.








“I’d accept you into the programme straightaway if I were a professor there,” Yifan declares, stuffing another mouthful of beef wellington into his mouth.

“Thanks,” Jongin says, cheeks a little pink from all the work and the compliment. “Sehun?”

“I’m not qualified to judge the cooking, but I’ll say this – the soufflé is a little flatter than it could be, so just take a few extra moments to whisk the whites better. The taste is amazing though, so I’d say you’re all set.”

Exhaling, Jongin sinks into a chair and releases the tight hold on his hand towel.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt so nervous in my life,” Jongin mutters, rubbing at his eye tiredly. “What if I don’t make it? I’d have to wait a whole year to reapply; every year wasted out of culinary school is another year taken away from my dream of starting up my own place.”

Setting his fork down, Sehun shifts closer to Jongin’s side. “Don’t think too far ahead. Stay present. Right here, right now. You once told me to have faith in myself, so you have to do so, too.”

Yifan polishes off his plate and Sehun points at it. “And he’s quite picky when it comes to food, you know.”

Standing, Yifan gathers the empty dishes and brings them over to the sink, clapping Jongin’s shoulder comfortingly along the way.

“I’ll walk you there tomorrow if you want?”

Jongin nods. “That’d be nice.”








All Sehun can hear around him is French being spoken at an incredibly fast speed, so he slowly tunes it out and focuses on his anxious friend standing in front of him. They’re at the doors of one of the city’s most prestigious culinary schools, and Jongin’s due to start his entrance exam in less than ten minutes.

“Just cook,” Sehun says, tugging Jongin over to the side. A group of young, zealous looking Frenchmen dash inside right after. “Don’t think about where you are or why you’re there. Focus on what you’re doing. Maybe think of something nice and pleasant, something that always centres you and calms you down.”

“Will you be here when I’m done?”

“I’ll be waiting right here, I promise – I haven’t broken any promises to you yet.”

Nodding, Jongin wets his lips, a nervous tick that had sprung on him halfway through last night. Frowning, Sehun reaches out and thumbs the wetness off Jongin’s bottom lip.

“Don’t do that, it dries your lips. Now go on, you don’t want to be late.”

The last thing Jongin remembers before he steps into the building is the assuring smile on Sehun’s face.








"I got in," Jongin breathes. The admission papers are clutched in his right hand, and there are faint hints of flour dusted across his forehead. "Sehun, I got in!"

Sehun's eyes are just curving up into happy half-moons when Jongin darts forward and pulls him into a rib-crushing hug. Even with his breath knocked out of him, Sehun manages to wind his arms around Jongin’s taut waist and return the gesture.

"I said you would, didn't I?" Sehun wheezes, gently squeezing Jongin's nape.

"Yeah, you did. Thank you, Sehun. I wouldn't have been able to do this by myself."

Jongin pulls back, but keeps a hand tight around Sehun's wrist.

"You just did everything by yourself, Jongin —"

"Yeah, but you were always there, being my cheering squad. You were the catalyst I needed to sprint after my dreams, not just walk at a constant pace behind it. I really do have you to thank."

A breeze rustles through the leaves of the trees around them, and Sehun reaches out with his free hand. Fingers close around the crumpled papers in Jongin's grip and they tug the sheets loose.

"Well, don’t ruin these," Sehun mumbles. "They're important."

Jongin chuckles at that and moves to properly grasp Sehun's hand. When Sehun doesn't pull away, Jongin starts walking towards the main road.

"Come on," he says, "make me some celebratory cake."

Glancing back over his shoulder, Jongin spies a tongue darting out over the swell of a lip.

"And don't your lips — it dries them out."










Cucumber slices, cut as thinly and evenly as one could possibly cut them, slide off the edge of Jongin’s knife and into a small bowl. There are two pies baking in the oven, and Sehun’s perched on the end of Jongin’s counter, watching the young chef prep for the dinner rush like it’s nothing but child’s play.

“Have you ever thought of enrolling?”

“In a pastry school programme?”

Jongin nods, chopping up a clove of garlic as he waits for Sehun’s reply.

“I have,” Sehun says, walking around the counter and towards the oven to check on the pies. “But I haven’t saved up quite enough as of yet. And I think getting more experience would be good too? Maybe after another year here…”

“I think you have more than enough skill,” Jongin says, setting down his knife. “But hey, take it at your own pace. Don’t rush things if you aren’t ready – it never turns out well.”

Sehun smiles, but stays quiet as he heads back to his station to prepare some pie toppings. They work in relative silence for a while, until Jongin breaks it with a gentle cough.

“Are you free this Saturday night? I have a test of some sorts on Sunday, and I’d like to run the dishes by you.”

“Sure,” Sehun replies, biting down into a strawberry. “Your place?”








Through the door, Sehun hears the sound of something bumping into something else, followed by a low groan of pain and a nice stream of profanities.

“Sorry,” Jongin croaks as he opens the door, “stubbed my toe on my damned table.”

Fighting back a laugh, Sehun steps inside and slips off his shoes.

“You alright there? Need a kiss for that boo boo?”

The laugh slips out despite his hardest attempts to keep it at bay, and as he chuckles his way into the kitchen, he misses the look on Jongin’s face and how he doesn’t seem to feel the throb anymore.

When Jongin enters the kitchen, Sehun’s bent over a simmering pot, one hand holding the pot’s lid and the other’s fluttering mid-air in an attempt to waft the scents up his nose.

“What’s cooking? Smells really good; are those bay leaves I smell? Because –”

“I lied,” Jongin interrupts, and Sehun turns around to see him standing a few feet away with a spoon in his hands, looking horribly uncomfortable. If Jongin had shoes on, Sehun swears he’d be squirming out of them right about now.

“What? About what?”

The spoon does a complicated dance routine in mid-air and Jongin turns redder by the minute. On the stove, the stew spits up a little and Sehun reflexively reaches out to turn the heat off.

“About the test,” Jongin mutters, stepping forward and dipping the spoon into the stew. He gives it taste, shrugs, and drops the spoon into the sink. “I don’t have a test.”

“Oh,” Sehun says, still a little confused. “Why?”

“I didn’t know how else to ask you to come over,” Jongin sighs, placing the lid back onto the pot.

“You could’ve just asked? I would’ve said yes. I didn’t have any other plans for today.”

Jongin visibly winces.

“Jongin,” Sehun continues slowly, “why did you want me to come over?”

When Sehun takes a step closer, Jongin reacts instantly and jumps a foot into the air, as if he’d just been burned by fire. He slams his elbow painfully into the countertop behind him, and he groans into his lap as he hunches over and cradles his arm.

“Oh god,” Sehun exclaims, darting forward and pulling Jongin up. “Are you okay? Does it hurt really bad? That sounded like it hurt –”

“That kiss would come in handy right about now,” Jongin mumbles, head ducked.

There's a warm hand around the sore, throbbing spot and Jongin hopes it doesn't go away. It doesn't — it stays. Jongin keeps his head down, heart palpitating too fast for him to do anything rational.

But when Sehun runs a hand through Jongin's hair, Jongin looks up immediately at the touch, eyes wide.

"Here," Sehun whispers, leaning down and pressing his lips gently against the crown of Jongin's head. "Your kiss. Feeling better?"

Jongin opens his mouth and says, "Since I made dinner... will you'll stay and have it?"

Sehun kisses him again, right on the same spot, and Jongin smiles. He might get a horrible bruise tomorrow or the day after, but right now, it doesn't hurt whatsoever.








Sehun has the time of his life at work the next day — Jongin's surprisingly shy and awkward around him, and Sehun absolutely loves it. Jumbled words of apology flood out between Jongin's lips whenever he bumps into Sehun accidentally (on purpose), and he blushes spectacularly whenever Sehun brushes fingers across the back of his neck or squeezes his hand.

"I'm going over tonight — it's my turn to make you something good to eat."

Jongin reddens again and speeds up his chopping. Sehun leans in and kisses the edge of his jaw.

"Breathe; don't cut your finger off by accident."

Grinning, Sehun strolls back to his station and returns to work, whistling merrily as he does so. Apart from these occasional bursts of emotions, the rest of the day goes by smoothly and normally. Jongin locks up at a quarter to midnight, and Sehun grabs Jongin’s hand before Jongin can start to worry about it himself.

“Sehun,” Jongin begins, “I think you should enrol in a pastry school soon. You’re more than capable, and I’m sure you’ll get in with no trouble.”

“Why this all of a sudden?”

Jongin’s grip on Sehun’s hand tightens almost imperceptibly, but Sehun glances over in heightened curiosity.

“I’ve been thinking want to start a little restaurant with you someday,” Jongin mumbles, face shrouded by the night. “The earlier we get our qualifications, the faster that dream will come true, right?”

With a tug, Jongin comes tumbling into Sehun’s chest.

“I’ll apply over the weekend, okay?”

“Really? You will? If you need any financial help or anything you can ask me, okay? I’m –”

Leaning in, Sehun fits his lips against Jongin’s, effectively cutting him off.

“I have all I need.”








It’s a Saturday night, and the two of them have just finished their classes at their respective culinary schools. They’re warm and full from a quick dinner of homemade broth and noodles, and Jongin’s drifting in and out of sleep, splayed out on the couch.

"Are you coming home tonight or are you already home?" Yifan's voice crackles knowingly through the earpiece and Sehun snorts, elbow propped up on the handrest. Jongin shifts sleepily in his lap and Sehun stills. Smoothing Jongin’s hair back from his forehead, Sehun looks down at his snoozing boyfriend and feels his lips quirk.

"I'm already home."