“I’m hungry,” I subconsciously whine to Baekhyun who is sat on the opposite sofa to me, lounging on his side to tilt himself so he is half facing me, half facing to documentary he decided to put on. “You dragged me away from my food earlier.”

“You act like you didn’t willingly take my hand,” he scoffs, raising an eyebrow in my direction. He is a little right, but I won’t readily let him know that, so I dismiss his sarcastic comment and return back to my growing hunger.

“Can you reheat chicken? Will I get food poisoning and die?” I frown, asking Baekhyun, wondering if I’m going to die by reheating chicken. He is a doctor, he should know. His expression turns into one of amusement at my apparent lack of cooking and medical knowledge.

“You can reheat chicken, baby,” he muses, his lips tilting into a wider smile. “Want me to go do it for you?” he questions, even though he is already pulling himself off the sofa to do so. I shoot him a smile, nodding my head.

“Please,” I quickly add on, not forgetting my manners to the older male, and he returns with a simple shake of his head, as if to say no problem. He makes his way into the kitchen and I am left alone in his living room, although I can see him slightly through the archway of the open door. It is still surprising to me how bare his apartment is.

There is nothing personal around; not a photo, not a painting or even a decoration. Just the necessities that an apartment needs. As Baekhyun comes across as a doting man, one that cares about his family very much, it surprises me that there is nothing around. He really must be very busy to not have the time, or care, to do anything with such a nice, spacious apartment. Deciding that I feel too alone in the large, white room, I move to go to the kitchen to help Baekhyun. When I enter, he is just sliding the food into the oven on a tray. As if sensing the new presence in the room, his glance fleets to where I am stood, before returning to the task at hand.

“Do you cook often?” I ask once he is closing the door to the oven, wondering if he knows a lot about cooking or if he enjoys doing so.

“Oh, definitely not,” he laughs, now leaning his back against the counter next to the oven, fiddling with his expensive looking watch to set a timer. His tongue runs across his lip out of concentration and my breath hitches in my throat at how handsome he looks doing such a mundane task. I cannot help but remember the feeling of his lips pressed against mine, how warm it felt. Once he is done, he comments on his previous confession, snapping me out of my stare, “I’m a professional at reheating food and cooking ramen, though.”

“I don’t know how to cook much,” I sheepishly admit, like it would make him feel better if I told him I also don’t do the chore regularly. “My parents do it for me, mostly. But I can make basic foods for myself.” I tell him with a proud smile.

“Ah, a spoilt child, then?” he teases, eyes becoming a crescent shape with affection. He moves his elbows to rest on the counter behind him so he is resting his weight upon them. His gaze and attention are entirely on me and even though I feel comfortable around his affectionate personality, it doesn’t stop me from feeling bashful.

“I’m an only child,” I shrug, knowing that I actually am spoilt by my parents so I am not bothered by it. I like to believe I grew up very well because of my parents love and affection.

“Must be nice,” he laughs. “Being the spoilt one.”

“Maybe so,” I bob my shoulders, “But you’re every parent’s dream child. You’re a doctor,” I tell him and he lets out a low chuckle. Flicking his wrist up to see the face of his watch, he momentarily checks how long the timer has left for our food before returning his attention to our conversation.

“I could be the next Albert Einstein and my mom would still chastise me for not cleaning up after myself,” he shakes his head fondly, as if he is reminded of his parents and his family.

“Mine too,” I add, giggling. Feeling curious, I ask, “What do your parents do?”

“My mom stays at home now-a-days. She used to work as a shop manager but she retired because it was tiring for her. My dad still works as an engineer,” he replies, and before I can get a chance to reply, he asks me the same thing.

“My mom doesn’t work full time because it’d hurt her health, but she works as a dog groomer sometimes. My dad works in a fancy company but I don’t really know about it,” I tell him. He bobs his head in understanding, even though he obviously knows about my mothers’ health situation.

“Why a lawyer then, sweetness?” he refers to my university de