Instinctively reaching up to his face, Sehun placed his hand over the large scratch that stretched down his left cheek.

“I forgot about that,” he admitted a little sheepishly.

Getting to my feet quickly, I wanted to get a closer look at it. “What happened?”

Shaking his head, he replied simply, “I got scratched on the subway because it was so busy.”

That was why I had never ridden the subway before; and it was obviously a wise decision. Taking a step closer to him, I could see only parts of the scratch through his fingers – it looked deep. “Have you cleaned it?”

Shaking his head, he let out a little sigh, “Not yet.”

I was about to offer to do it but I stopped for two reasons: one, I had never actually cleaned a wound (and certainly not one this large) before; and two, I thought that the closeness it brought would make both of us highly uncomfortable. “You should do it now.” I turned to leave, my hunger forgotten briefly.

“I thought you wanted food?”

My ear perked up at the word, and I turned, eying his cheek warily. He had dropped his hand again, but had turned a little so it wasn’t directly in my sight. “I think you should rest.”

He shrugged, “Whatever. I’m making pizza if you change your mind.”

“Pizza?” My mouth was salivating already.

Nodding, he held open his door for me, already knowing that I was about to come in. Without needing any more coaxing, I scuttled in under his arm like a hungry stray dog. I was surprised he didn’t make any comment about it.

Leading me through to his kitchen, I looked around me as I went. Although this was not my first time in his house, it was the first chance I had to look around the place properly. My flustered and disorientated state last time didn’t really make for an ideal house-snooping mindset. 

The place was nice. It was mostly creamy white, with all the cabinets in the kitchen made of black marble. I let out a little whistle; that wouldn’t have been cheap.

Sehun smirked at me, “Like it?”

I nodded, “Yeah, it’s nice. Not like I thought you’d have it…”  Hearing a scoffing noise, I guessed that he didn’t like my comment about his taste.

When he reached the centre of the kitchen, he turned me to a questioning expression, “Why can’t you cook?”

Shrugging, I honestly replied, “I just never learned.”

Sehun’s questioning expression remained plastered to his features, “But you live alone, how can you not cook?”

He had a point. For someone who was living alone, the ability to cook seemed like a basic essential skill to have. “I only started living on my own recently.” It wasn’t a lie. “Before that, my father used to cook for me.” That was more like an extension of the truth: my father’s chef’s cooked for me.

“Then why don’t you live with your father now?” Sehun asked as he opened his fridge and started taking out various ingredients.

Hmm, why didn’t I live with my father now? It was a good question, I’ll give him that. And certainly one I had not prepared myself for, since I hadn’t planned on letting anyone know where I lived.

“He’s abroad - he’s working abroad. So he thought I should stay here and finish my studies.”

“Why did you move schools then?”

“I was home-schooled before,” I began, making it up as I went along, “but when my father received a job offer, he didn’t want me to only see the tutor so he enrolled me into mainstream school.” Even I was impressed with that one.

Sehun nodded as he began kneading the dough. I had seen this once before when I was in Italy, but there was something amazing about watching him do it.

“Ugh!” He suddenly cried out, causing me to look away from his working hands and up to his face.

“What is it?” I asked, a small frown forming between my eyebrows.

Shaking his head, he grabbed a rolling pin, “No, it’s just you’re really pretty creepy when you stare like that.”

Me? I was creepy? What about him? I puffed the air out of my cheeks as they reddened a little, an endless stream of curses running through my mind as I glowered at him.

“Here.” He stepped to the side of the board he was working on.

I snapped out of my silent cursing and softened my expression to him as I was curious about what he meant.

“Here!” he said again, rubbing his nose with the side of his sleeve.

Taking a step towards him, I still didn’t know what exactly it was that he wanted me to do.

“Roll it.”

“What it?” This boy could really talk rubbish.

“Roll. It.”

I raised an eyebrow at his condescending tone but walked up to the dough to his left all the same. Picking up the rolling pin, I asked, “With this?” Although I had just seen him using it, I didn’t want to make a fool of myself by using the wrong thing.

His lips formed a straight line as he looked at me. I got the impression that he was seriously doubting if my outstanding grades were all my own work.

Rolling my eyes, I tossed the rolling ping from hand to hand; it was heavier than I thought it would be. I then proceeded to roll it around in the dough. Before long, the dough got stuck to the rolling pin and I was in a gloopy mess – again.

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