The tour had ended without any more accidents, and they were sent off into their new dwellings with a cheerful reminder from Chef Bertrand that, “Tomorrow we will test your capabilities in the kitchen, and place you in your respective classes. Have a good night’s rest, everyone!”

Luhan was bone tired. He had been lugged around a campus that must’ve been the size of a small African nation, forced to digest tons of information in a single go, and had only been fed with a meager spread of food. At home, a normal meal consisted of eight dishes, not including rice and the desserts, whereas they only served this weird French stew—pot au feu, Chef Kim had said—with mashed potatoes, a dish he recognized as minestrone, and some cheeses and breads. He had heard a lot others complaining about the lack of variety, but they were only mumbling to themselves and to the friends they were lucky enough to be lined up next to, in fear of Chef Wu and Chef Sandra Kent, the man-eater lo fon woman, who Luhan had the pleasure of meeting a while ago.

Now, he had been suddenly informed about some kind of preliminary test of some sort.

Luhan just wanted to go home. Like, home home, not St. Pierre home. Everyone in Level I Basic Cuisine trudged back to the brick-built building they would now spend nine months in, their footsteps noticeably heavier and a thin sheet of exhaustion hanging over the crowd. Three flights of steps up again, Luhan thought sullenly. At least I don’t have to carry those bags with me anymore, right?

Screw that, another side of him snapped irritably, it’s still three flights, .

Luhan hadn’t spoken to Oh Sehun, barista and bellboy extraordinaire, after that accident at the stairs, even after they dropped off their bags at the bare apartment. He had wanted to thank him, or at least, say something, but Luhan just can’t muster guts nor courage to do so, even if Sehun acted like he couldn’t care less about the whole ordeal, even if he himself walked away without another word.

Like a cat, he thought absently as he rejoined Yixing and some strangers that his best friend had met. Independent, fey, even. Smiling one day, blank-faced the next. His new roommate was weird.

Turning his head back, he saw the sky, as the twilight settled over the campus in its loveliest shades of blue, orange, and bright pink, and felt tired, nostalgic, like an old man. He didn’t know why his heart tugged silently, why he felt so lonely, so confused, as he is surrounded by hundreds of other people, and Luhan, without knowing he was doing it, tucked behind his ear a stray lock of hair, his fingers curling ever so slightly, just like somebody named Peony had ten years ago.

It was, once again, Peony. Not quite the Peony Sehun had met years earlier, but what Peony must look like, if Sehun simply mistook Luhan for his childhood love. She was looking at him, straight into his soul, her big, brown eyes capturing all of his attention. She was beautiful in a white dress, just a few shades lighter than her skin, her long, long hair dancing to the wind’s rhythm. Sehun can’t speak—he was afraid that his voice might make her disappear, like a gazelle fleeing at the slightest hint of danger.

Sehun, she said, smiling her small, lovely smile. You came back, after all.

“Peony,” he whispered helplessly. “Peony.” He watched her giggle between her hands, a soft giggle of affection, so childlike in its gesture. Sehun stepped closer, wanting to hold her, to make sure that she never would disappear again. I’ll never let you go, if you promise not to fade away.

Your eyes look sad, Sehun, she says. But you remember everything. Maybe that’s why they’re so dark. Peony moves naturally into his embrace, and she fits perfectly, like his arms were made for her. Sehun can’t speak as she reaches up, her hand confident as she places it against his cheek. It felt warm. It felt natural.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please don’t go.” She feels so warm, and her smell enveloped him in its own embrace—the smell of everything comforting, from baking cookies to honeysuckle to a scent just… just simply her.

I want to stay, too, she whispers back. I want to remember you, Sehun. I tried to run, Sehun, I wanted to run, but I’m lost, I just don’t know where I am, she whispers urgently, but her voice retains that tender, restrained air. Save me, Sehun.

“From what?” asked Sehun, searching her eyes and finding fear, finding confusion, finding longing. Her hand traces the ou