woah another long wait huhu :-( sorry my cp's been trippy, so i had to edit a load of a lot okay anyways, enjoy!

//addtl; JUST A NOTE! yeosachin means a female friend in korean, from yeoja (lady) + saram (person) + chingu (friend). free korean lessons from faye ur welcome please, please, please comment and upvote, babes! i love you all, and til next chap!

Bread—one of the most basic staple foods in the history of man. It was like the rice of the Western world, existing first as a rough loaf baked over hot stones in the age of the Neanderthals, then unleavened bread from the Israelites and the Egyptians, going all the way to the tricky croissants and the bad boy that Luhan’s now struggling to work with—white bread.

After this I’m never going to eat loaf bread again, Luhan fumed, his arms screaming Ave Maria from kneading dough for what felt like thirty years. Never, not once, am I going to eat something with yeast in it, ‘cause after I’m done with this, I’ll punt every damn loaf of bread I come across with like a football player about to get tackled.

Kyungsoo was a tough teacher, unsurprisingly, one that hovered around you and called you a motherless turtle when you got too slow with the kneading and turning. , if Luhan was honest, Kyungsoo was a of a teacher. More often than not, he wanted to fling the dough on Kyungsoo’s face.

Theoretically, making bread is easy—Luhan watched Kyungsoo effortlessly churn out two perfect loaves of bread, with golden-brown crusts that glinted with a nice shimmer in the industrial lighting of the kitchen. The outcome was fragrant, chewy, and soft—all with just about 2 to 3 hours of work, and seemingly not laborous work, at that. Activate the yeast, mix the dough, knead, knead some more, let rise, bake, ta-dah! Easy, right?

Luhan’s sore arms didn’t exactly testify to that.

At first, Luhan killed the yeast. The water, which is supposed to be just warm enough to activate the yeast, was way too hot. Kyungsoo threw him a distasteful look and informed Luhan that Luhan’s an idiot. He had to start over, learning that thermometers are there for a reason the hard way, and he thought he had a good going until he let it rise too much. The dough reminded him of Chef Bertrand’s rotund belly clad in chef’s whites, but with acid indigestion—it was kind of translucent, with air bubbles underneath the surface. Imagine Elmer’s glue, mixed with water, suspended over a dome of oxygen. It was edible, but Kyungsoo said, point-blank, that the loaves were ugly.

The second pair of loaves was burned. Like, stone-black burned. Luhan went to the bathroom while it was baking, and when he got back to the kitchen, he saw Kyungsoo with his arms crossed, with his two loaves of smoldering black bread in front of him. Luhan almost chickened and ran for it—the guy looked mean and pissed, like a big wildcat on a leash. He must’ve spent about twenty minutes talking about how Luhan’d burn the city down just because he had to and he couldn’t hold it. Luhan just gave up trying to defend himself two minutes in it. That pair wasn’t edible.

Third try was slightly better—the dough wasn’t too floury, nor sticky, and the yeast was as alive as Frankestein after getting jolted. But he made it rise too long again—overproofed, Kyungsoo called it—and so, Kyungsoo, being sick of rescuing Luhan from this screw-up, told him to go punch it down, knead it, and let it rise again. If he doesn’t figure out when the dough’s risen enough, Kyungsoo told him, he better take some ProVigil to keep him awake.

And so now, here we are, ferds, Luhan thought sourly. His forearms and the webbings of his shoulders first screamed in pain, then grew numb, and then by hour four they acquired this steady, pulsing throb, as if somebody er-punched Luhan in the arms. He’d been doing this thing for, what, six, seven hours? Of course he had some potty breaks, plus some rest while he waited for the bread to rise, and he had had lunch a while ago (it wasn’t bread, his nor Kyungsoo’s nor anybody else’s, thank the good Lord Jesus, but chicken-and-sweet bell pepper fajitas, courtesy of La Cocotte).

“Upper-body strength,” Luhan muttered angrily, blowing hair out of his eyes with a furious huff. He felt gross and sweaty, and he supposed he must have a good set of sweat circles around the armpit area. He was dusted with enough flour to make people think he was preparing for some kind of kabuki dance. “Just think of it as an upper-body strength workout, upper-body strength, soccer didn’t prepare you enough for this, upper-body—“

“You’re kneading it wrong,” Kyungsoo called out.

“Leave me alone!” Luhan shrieked shrilly back. This is torture, he thought hysterically, it’s a punishment for all the A-minuses I’ve ever had in my lifetime, for the parties I drank gallons of Jim Beam in, oh my Lord Jesus Christ, they’re killing me.

“Too much flour,” Kyungsoo added, ignoring Luhan’s not-so-sweet remark. Luhan wanted to give him a good clout, considering the amount of arm strength the kneading gave him. Instead of sprinting over to where Kyungsoo is and giving him a solid black eye, he grabbed a sharp knife and divided the dough in two, placing it in two separate bowls and covering them each with a towel.

Luhan sighed with exhaustion, setting the timer on the nearby stove. He’d had a pretty good estimate by now of how long, exactly, the bread’s supposed to be left alone, but his last try at letting it rise was a smidge off by two minutes. He didn’t want to spend another hour remaking dough (Kyungsoo and his perfectionism).

“Had a good workout?” an amused voice said behind Luhan, and he would’ve thought it was Sehun if not for the obvious fact that the speaker was a female. Miss Jade.

If Luhan wasn’t so bushed, he would’ve attempted to make some kind of witty retort or something. Instead, he just grunted. Classy, shojo-manga commented, but even she sounded beat. Most of the time, Luhan could find little difference between her and a hyperactive squirrel.

“The best cooks in China are male, you know,” Miss Jade said conversationally. Unfortunately, Luhan wasn’t in the mood for some kind of gastronomic pep-talk. He just grunted again, and Miss Jade continued breezily. She didn’t look like she got the message. “A lot of chefs say that cooking is a man’s job—all that lifting and heat and such, yadda-yadda—and I don’t all agree all the way, but I see their point, you know.”

“So what’s yours?” Luhan asked wearily.

“This thing—cooking, I mean—it’s not unlike learning a complicated sport. We’re your coaches, Han darling, and we’re not beating your down—pardon my French, hon—if we didn’t think you can take it. Remember—baking is a science.”

“Baking is a science,” Luhan repeated numbly. He glanced at the clock over the pantry (a Betty Boop one with her skirt flying up like Marilyn Monroe’s, Luhan observed), and with some effort, understood it was… Oh, it was 6:37. Only. Luhan wanted to cry.

Miss Jade laughed, a high peal of laughter like crystal. “Look at you, eight hours into bread-making and you’re already so disillusioned. Come, come, sit beside me, tian syaumei, I’ll tell you a secret.” Miss Jade smiled, eyes sparkling. Luhan trudged over to her, too tired to even react to the “sweet dumpling” label.

“As I said, baking is a science, but cooking is an art,” she said, switching easily to her alto Mandarin, “and art has no limits. You don’t have to paint pictures or be a sculptor to be an artist—poets, authors, dancers, singers, musicians! Artists, all of them. But,” Miss Jade said, “a chef, believe it or not, is another one of them.”

Luhan still wasn’t convinced. Art’s not his thing—Papa raised him to think that art’s something for people with plenty of spare time, and if Luhan had spare time—which wasn’t often—he’d much rather spend it on, ah, more practical activities. You couldn’t eat art (well, at least the conventional type). And, he thought, in order to make money off it, you’d have to be a genius, and it’s not very practical to spend your time trying to become one when you could do some other productive endeavors.

“Cooking, I believe, is one of the highest forms of art, Luhan, and if you could master this, you’re even better than Rembrandt or Picasso or any one of those painters. Cooking combines both the pragmatic and the creative, but most of all, little flower, it combines the heart.”

Luhan stopped in the middle of putting the dough into the loaf pan. He’d been half-tuning out Miss Jade like he’s always had with Lao-lao or Eunice when they talk about stuff Luhan didn’t give a crap about, like Manolo Blahniks or internal yin and yang and stuff like that, but suddenly, it was as if he was jolted by static from a stranger’s touch, like an invisible hand brushed by him.

Little flower? He thought, suddenly, of peach-colored walls. He didn’t know why, but—

He pushed the thought away and snorted. Heart, my , he thought, what’s she gonna talk about next? Hand-holding with the North Koreans and the Commies, singing Kumbaya? and a little part of him told him he was being cynical old fart. Miss Jade just ignored him.

“But that’s beside my point. When’s the bread gonna be done, honey?”

Luhan told her wearily. He couldn’t see where exactly Miss Jade was going with this little heart-to-heart revelation of the wonders and joys of the gastronomic world—he honestly was too tired to even give a half-.

“I’ve got time,” Miss Jade said. “Now, come on, sweet, bear with the old woman and her yakking. As I said, cooking is an art, so don’t treat it like a chore, hear?”

“I don’t,” Luhan retorted, and he didn’t even care about the fact that he sounded like a bratty sixteen-year old whining about the school dress code and where the hem lines should be.

Miss Jade’s face was all like, Mmm-hm.

Luhan sighed. “Okay, well, a little,” he admitted.

“Learn how to cope, then,” Miss Jade said, her smile rivaling only Mona Lisa’s. “You’re a smart boy—learn how to turn it into something you like.” She gestured grandly, a sweeping motion with her hands that almost knocked the coffee-maker off the counter. “Dance while you stir-fry. Sing while chopping onions—wait, you know what, on second thought, that’s no bueno. I can’t have you hospitalized in my care. If you’re visually artistic, plate like you’re painting. But don’t treat it like a pile of dishes to wash, or like it’s some kind of GE paper you have to type up.”

Luhan couldn’t even muster up enough energy to make a face. “Miss Jade, you know, it’s not like I wanted to get into the kitchen world, in general,” he tried to explain, getting up to get the bread from the oven as he glanced at Betty Boop, “so there’s really no point in trying to talk me into making me like it.”

Miss Jade just reclined, leaning and resting her back on the cool, smooth tile of the counter. She has this cat-like expression on her face, her rouged lips curved up into sharp little points. Luhan gulped.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“So what is Mr. Lu’s view on cooking, then? Mr. Lu the sophisticate, Mr. Lu the pragmatist.”

Luhan just sighed. Miss Jade was looking for a fight, but Luhan wasn’t very in the mood. “I—Look, the art perspective of it isn’t for me, okay? Just—“ Luhan stopped and flung his hands through his hair in frustration, searching for the right words.

“You’re like a goldfish trying to convince a gecko to enjoy swimming,” Luhan gritted, yanking the serrated knife from the rack to cut the bread. “I’m the gecko—I’m just suffocating in the-the pressure, in the fact that I’m just a complete, utter failure, that I’m going to disappoint my Papa, that I’m going to be even worse than average, that I’m bad, that no matter how hard I try in this stupid- chore only females do, I’m still going to end up wasting my time!”

Luhan stopped, his breath running in short gasps, staring at Miss Jade with eyes wide, standing there like he was expecting a fist to be swung at him. The lo fon woman. He was thinking about that damned lo fon woman, screaming at him on the first day, face and neck as red and veined as a jungle tree in dying light.

He hadn’t realized he had been screaming the last part of what he said until he felt his throat sting as he tried to apologize, but he could only muster up a whine that sounded like I or yes or the last part of unnie. Miss Jade didn’t speak for a beat or two, only looking at him expectantly.

“Are you done?”

Luhan nodded. What happened to the nurturing, in-law-to-be?

“Well, just to let you know, I only asked for your views on cooking, not your life story, but thanks for sharing, anyway,” she informed him while checking her nails. Luhan’s shoulders slumped. Even Yixing would try to give a , somehow.

“Great,” Luhan muttered, turning his back on her, sawing at the bread. “I just poured my heart out to a woman, and she was more interested in her manicure job.” Grr-shk, grr-shk, grr-shk. “’The gentler ’ my .” Shojo-manga magically reawakened, shaking her head and saying, Well, lookie, do I see a ist pig around here?

“You know, syaumei, they tell me only angry people, drunk people, and children are honest, but you taught me that PMS-ing gentlemen also have quite a frank way of expressing their feelings, as well.”

Luhan whipped his head around to glare at his boss indignantly. “I do not have PMS!”

“Didn’t say you did, hon,” she replied offhandedly, rising from her stool like it was some gilded throne and strode over to take a slice of the bread. She nibbled on it thoughtfully, a new expression that Luhan had never seen her wear coming across her face, like velvet curtains in between play’s acts—closed-off in such a way that you could never predict what she’s going to say next, like a loaded trigger, as she quite literally digested your work.

Finally, after what seemed like three years of Luhan holding his breath, she listed off with bored contempt, “Your bread is too dry, too much flour. Seriously, have you been watching Kyungsoo or was your head stuck up your ? Also, it’s too hard. You overbaked it a little, yes, but a little goes a long way, sweet,” she said. Ho, Luhan thought. Did I look a little too defensive? Rational Luhan said Si, amigo. “Hm, let me channel my prophetic prowess—I can see through my mystic eye that you overmixed it, over-kneaded it, and overbaked it, but that’s a given.”

Luhan rolled his eyes and plopped down on one of the stools next to the liquor. “So?”

She smiled sweetly. “So you get to do it again.”

Luhan groaned as she plopped a mixing bowl in his hands.

Miss Jade seemed to be back to her chatty, yeosachin alter ego again as Luhan measured each of his ingredients with surgical precision. He sighed, shaking his head, but hey, at least he wouldn’t get roasted for the two hours he supposed he’d be spending with Miss Jade if it were otherwise, right?

But the woman’s just talking Luhan’s ears off. Like, if the rate of Miss Jade’s words were anything, it would be bullets per minute, from an Uzi or something. Shojo-manga, the estrogenated side of Luhan, didn’t mind that much, though, because Miss Jade was talking about the stuff that Luhan supposed was her absolute, A-to-the-ing-1 favorite: gossip. Quite particularly gossip about her son.

“So,” Miss Jade was saying, “Sehun and I lived in the not-so-safe areas of the hood back in those days, the type where there seems to be a police cruiser magnet and where Jordans were slung over telephone wires. You do know what that means, do ya?”

“What? The shoes on the wires?” Luhan turned to her, and despite feeling a lot like a wrung-out dishtowel, the corners of his lips were pulling up. “Isn’t that, like, some kind of thing the hip-hop music videos have in the backdrop?”

Miss Jade rolled her eyes. “They include it there because it’s a sign that dope and pot’s being sold there. Kind of like a neon sign. Or a billboard sign. Whatever. So Sehun toddles along as we walk home, careful to avoid the little bombs made by the birds and stray dogs alike, and then he crows in his cute little pre-puberty Sehun way, ‘Oooh, Ma! Ma, look!’”

Luhan burst out laughing, because he possibly couldn’t imagine Sehun being cute or little. (Okay, maybe a little bit of the cute, but that’s not the point.)

“So I hurried over to him, carrying our groceries and all, because what the heck, it might be a joint or a stray bullet or something my baby boy would potentially put in his mouth. Then I saw him holding up this circle of a bright fuschia something. I was like, Oh, is that candy? Sehun was holding it up like it was a lottery ticket with all the right numbers, and then—he was just beginning to read back then—he squinted, looked at it real close like a granny without her reading glasses, and said, in this slow, halting kiddy speech—

“Men’s… latex… con-dom. Light… ly… lub… ri… ca… ted,” Miss Jade announced, narrowing her eyes and pretending she’s reading something, and Luhan would’ve begun to laugh when she turned to him and said, “And you know what he said next?”

“What?”

“’Oooh, my favorite!’”

Luhan guffawed, almost giving himself an instant bread-batter facial wash, and when he managed to stop wheezing, he said, “I believe that just as much as I’d believe Jesus is riding around in Incheon on a golf cart right now.” But hey, what the hell, why not, right?

“I know, Sehun might look like the type of person who spouted quantum physics as a child, but I’m his mom, sweets,” Miss Jade informed him, the look on her face saying, And he did flip out some, too, babe, FYI. Luhan burst out laughing some more, shaking his head.

Miss Jade was on a roll, though. It seemed like she had a whole spiel about random, day-to-day things, like about the time she had to call the fire station because she forgot she was frying bacon and the grease made this bonfire that looked a lot like those pits the crazy Christian neighbors claim she’d be thrown in at Judgment Trump (Those poor lunatics, Miss Jade had said, but she looked pretty pissed just by the memory, I know I’m not the best person, but sunbathing in my backyard makes me a of Babylon, apparently); about how they were so hard-pressed when ‘her baby’ was young that when burglars broke in their dumpy bungalow, she laughed and helped them look for money, too (I kid you not, Miss Jade said, but Luhan—even if he sounded like an asthmatic from all that laughing—was beginning to realize she’s not the most reliable source); the innumerable times she stepped on stray Lego pieces and was sure she’s going to have her foot amputated because of how Jesus-Lord-God it hurt like a .

But she also talked about the days when she thanked God she was a single mom and didn’t work in an office, because she could stay home with her little boy, bundled in blankets like twin burritos when it was raining and school’s canceled… about how she, whenever times got too hard, liked to just stay in the tiny laundry room and sit with the running washing machine with its steady thrum and bury her face in the warm, freshly-dried clothes in the plastic basket. Her stories were not unlike her eyes earlier that day, looking at him—a constant shift between yellows and grays.

Luhan didn’t think about the bread he was making, nor about the fact that he couldn’t cook to save his life, nor about his father nor Eunmi nor anybody. His hands simply went autopilot. It was like reading an intricately written novel, or watching a long but first-rate box-office hit—Luhan was simply immersed in Miss Jade’s stories, Miss Jade’s memories, feeling what she was feeling, weaving a picture in his mind. It was redeeming, hearing Miss Jade’s life, because living, quite simply, is exhausting. Giving up the first-person controls for a while, not making any decisions—Luhan smiled to himself.

All plausible reasons why being the life of a little kid’s by far the easiest to live in, Rational Luhan said. Luhan had been waiting to hear from shojo-manga (not because he was eager to hear her insult his manliness, but more out of a paranoid obsession, as a matter of fact. Think of that one annoying, chatterbox turd in that one class, the one that wouldn’t shut up no matter how pissed the teacher is already—imagine him or her shutting up all of a sudden. Now everybody’s worried because 1) if the kid ain’t talking, he might be having a terminal disease or something, or 2) if the kid ain’t talking, he must be plotting something.)

Whatever. Shojo’s so much like Miss Jade that Luhan felt like it’d give him an estrogen overdose if shojo made a cameo.

Then suddenly, Miss Jade shut up, too.

Oh no, Luhan thought. What’s she up to now? Luhan looked at her warily after he set the loaf pans in the oven racks with care.

“… What’s the matter?” he asked with unmistakable trepidation. She smiled, her red lips curving up mysteriously, like a cross between the Mona Lisa and every woman in every vintage spy movie, who either has a gun hidden on a thigh holster or a helpful secret hidden behind those lips.

“Vous verrons, Monsieur Gecko,” she said, “You shall see the reasons why I am right. I’ve always been and always shall be, even moreso on my talents, which include picking out the yet-undiscovered prodigies of the culinary field.” Her eyes, brightly set against the glittery green of her eyeshadow, looked a little like dragon eyes—Luhan didn’t know why.

“Miss Jade, if this whole thing—by this whole thing I mean making me bake nonstop to the point that I think I’d smell of yeast after taking five showers—if this is about you training me as a cooking genius, you’re just wasting your time.”

Miss Jade’s eyebrows went up indulgently, like she was just informed that the earth was flat by a toddler. “Wasting my time? What made you think I’m capable of ‘wasting time?’” Luhan sighed impatiently, holding up his fingers and counting off.

“Well, as Kyungsoo said, I can’t cook. Like, literally, biologically, just can’t. It’s like teaching a deaf-blind child how to talk—it’s about near impossible. Therefore, you are wasting your time. Also, you just storytelling about thirty seconds ago, just for the sake of passing time?” Ooh, you better watch out, boy, shojo-manga suddenly piped up, like she was triggered or something. I thought we already settled on the fact that ing around with Miss Jade equals a pretty good chance of getting our obliterated.

Miss Jade, fortunately, gave Luhan’s retort no second thought, but unfortunately, she also gave Luhan’s retort no second thought—meaning she gave no s whatsoever regarding what Luhan thought.

“Hm,” she said breezily, still pretty damn unconvinced, and sent him off to go change his clothes because he smelled like a high school’s men’s locker room. Offended, Luhan gingerly smelled the collar of his shirt, but before he could try to protest that no, he didn’t smell like the guys’ locker room (not exactly, anyway), and make known the fact that she’s a girl, Miss Jade just kicked his out.

As he trudged upstairs, he saw Kyungsoo cleaning up the shop and flipping the sign to CLOSED. Without even thinking about it, Luhan’s eyes scanned the entirety of the café and blurted out, “Where’s Sehun?”

Kyungsoo didn’t even look up from his shop-keeping duties. “He went out, but he didn’t say where.” He went right back to his business, and shojo-manga proceeded to commence a full-on panic attack.

He’s gone! What are we going to do? Shojo-manga flailed around wildly, and it seemed like there was an air raid siren going off, whEEEeeeEEooOO, and all the lights are red and pulsing. Sehun’s gone! Where is he? What is he doing? How long has he been gone? What are we going to do?

Luhan forced his legs to pick one foot up, put it down, other foot up, put it down; while he and Rational Luhan shouted, Calm the down! Calm down, dammit! What are you freaking out for?

The alarm stopped, but shojo-manga was still a bundle of electrified nerves. What am I freaking out for? she repeated with sarcastic patience. Well, how about, one, what if the man has a girlfriend he’s out visiting or something? Numero dos, why didn’t he tell us he’s out? Three, he’s away.

Luhan gently closed the door to the guest room Miss Jade loaned him, but his brain was whirring around like the Mad Hatter’s watch in the tea party—jumping, high on those stupid fajitas, click-clack, boink. Away. He’s away.

Away. Absent. Not here. Not near. Even Rational Luhan, hell, even Alpha Male understood the connotation of that word, and Luhan’s very soul was struck by some kind of vibration. It was like finding out the pilot flew a little too high up, and everybody in the flying metal bird you’re in may or may not run out of oxygen soon. It’s not just a mild, weird worry that Sehun might’ve forgotten about his roommate and leave Luhan to hitchhike all the way back to Pierre’s. It was something almost… primal.

He didn’t understand it, tried to shrug it off, but it lingered as he took a quick, cold shower and changed into a fresh shirt and jeans.

Ha, overpacking pays off, see, he tried to joke, but all he could picture was Sehun’s devil-bike and the compartment his bag was in. Jesus Christ. Oh my Jesus Christ, where in the world is that little ? Luhan chewed on lip, thinking, worrying. Where is he? What if something happened to him? What if he’s had an accident?

Suddenly, a flash of red against the gray of the pavement, a black helmet tossed nine yards away, Sehun’s face covered by his hair, the blue-and-red siren of the police cars, yellow tape. Luhan’s heart seemed to want to headbutt its way out of his ribcage, out towards wherever Sehun is, like gravity.

Stop panicking, Rational Luhan counseled. Breathe in, out—it’s just your overly active imagination getting all hyped because you’re just simply bushed, okay? You’re tired, you’re almost-delusional, now stop it.

Luhan wanted him to stop there, but Rational Luhan added, And plus, if anything happens, you barely know him, anyway.

That’s not true, a little whisper in the deepest part of Luhan answered right back, echoing, echoing, like a shockwave whisper. That’s not true. Suddenly, he heard the jingle of the bells on the door, heavy shoes—boots?—padding on the varnished floor, steady and rhythmic, like an army bugle corps’ pre-battle beat, and Luhan hurried down the stairs, thinking, it’s the paramedics, no, it’s the police, they’re going to say, Is Miss Jade Oh here, is that right, Jade Oh, we have terrible news for the lady, pass on the message that her son is—

“Everything all right, jag-nam?”

Luhan exhaled, not knowing that he had been holding his breath for what seemed like an inhumanly long time, and almost tripped over himself trying to get to Sehun, his hair still tousled from the helmet he still carried in his arms.

“You little piece of !” Luhan yelled hoarsely, wanting to punch this guy in the throat if only Luhan didn’t have to go on his tippy-toes to do it. “Where have you been?”

“Was a bill passed that all men under nineteen can’t go buy their own dinner while I was away?” Sehun asked, a slight smile on his face. He didn’t seem offended at all about the ‘little piece of ’ label.

“No, but I can guarantee that same bill would protect all men nineteen and older against charges of murder of the little s that violate it,” Luhan snapped. Sehun just laughed and rumpled Luhan’s still-damp hair, and Luhan could smell the Seoul wind on him.

I want to hug him, make sure he’s entirely here, Luhan thought vaguely. Oh God, I want to hug him so bad.

Luha’s eyes widened, and he instantly smacked away Sehun’s hand and cleared his throat awkwardly, but much Luhan’s relief, Sehun just laughed again, shaking his head.

“So how’s the bread-making?” Sehun asked, setting his helmet on a nearby table. Luhan didn’t want to answer the question, but he supposed he had to. After all, Sehun had enrolled him in that killer workout they euphemistically called baking bread.

“The first three tries flopped, and I’m about to see how the fourth try did,” he vaguely answered, entering the brightly-lit kitchen, out of the wine- and mahogany-colored sha