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Morning arrived softly at the campus café, tucked into a quiet corner between the science library and the sculpture garden, where sleepy trees rustled in the breeze and the early sun painted long shadows across the brick path. Inside, the lights were low, the music was mellow, and the air was warm with the scent of flour, butter, and a promise.
Kihyun moved with the confidence of someone who belonged—not just behind the counter, but inside the rhythm of this place. He didn’t need a checklist to open; the espresso machine purred to life under his hands, trays were lined with parchment as if by instinct, and the first batch of scone dough was already chilling. He knew every creak in the wooden shelves, every stubborn drawer, every regular customer’s complicated coffee order. Three years of mornings like this had molded him into something sharp and sure.
It wasn’t just a part-time job to him. Not really. For Kihyun, baking was less about sugar and heat and more about expression—creativity disguised as crust, personality folded into layers of pastry. While other culinary students at the university chased Michelin dreams or corporate kitchens, Kihyun dreamed of small spaces with soul, of pastries that surprised you, of flavors that felt like a conversation.
The door opened with a soft jingle of the bell, and a cool breath of dawn air followed Shownu inside.
“You’re early,” Kihyun called over his shoulder, though the amusement was already curling in his voice.
“I’m always early,” came the calm reply, quiet and matter-of-fact.
Kihyun didn’t bother turning. “You got here five minutes before me. Don’t brag.”
Shownu stepped behind the counter like a tide rolling in—steady, quiet, impossible to stop. There was nothing hurried about him. He started checking the fridge, flipping through the clipboard of inventory with the kind of focus that made him an ideal manager. Customers liked him because he was polite. Staff liked him because he never micromanaged. And everyone liked him because—well, because he was Shownu.
Kihyun dusted flour off his fingers and glanced up when the silence stretched.
“You’re making a face,” he said.
Shownu, who never made a face unless the situation demanded it, closed the fridge gently. “Junhee’s out indefinitely. Family thing.”
Kihyun straightened. “You mean the baker’s out?”
“Mhm.”
“So…” He trailed off, eyebrows lifting.
Shownu met his gaze evenly. “You’re next up.”
It wasn’t phrased like a question. It wasn’t even phrased like a challenge. It was just a fact—like gravity, or the way cinnamon always stuck to your fingers. Kihyun blinked, caught off guard by the sudden, thrilling weight of trust.
“All right,” he said slowly. Then, with more certainty: “Yeah. I’ve got it.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Shownu’s mouth. “I know.”
Kihyun didn’t respond right away. He was too busy mentally rewriting the day—scrapping the safe almond croissants and basic chocolate muffins, replacing them with color and texture, flavors that weren’t afraid to be strange. Maybe something with rosemary and citrus. Or chili-spiked ganache. He didn’t know yet, but he would by noon.
Ten minutes later, Hyungwon drifted in like a gust of over caffeinated ennui. He wore an oversized hoodie, sunglasses he didn’t need, and the air of someone who resented being conscious before ten a.m.
He slouched against the counter without greeting. “Coffee. Something illegal-strength.”
Kihyun poured a cup and slid it across without a word. They had this unspoken ritual every morning—Hyungwon asking for something dramatic, Kihyun providing it without flinching.
“You heard?” Kihyun asked as Hyungwon took the first sip and visibly rejoined the living.
“Heard what?”
“Junhee’s out. I’m taking over the pastry department.”
Hyungwon blinked once behind his sunglasses, then raised his mug in a lazy toast. “Congratulations. May the oven gods bless you.”
Kihyun smirked. “Don’t jinx it.”
The café was beginning to fill in that predictable mid-morning way—students drifting through between lectures, some groggy and desperate, others already annoyingly put together. Kihyun moved between the oven and the counter like a dancer hitting marks, his apron streaked with flour, his hair curling just slightly at the edges from the heat.
He had just set out a tray of rosewater pistachio financiers—small, delicate, unapologetically pink—when the door chimed and two familiar shapes stepped in.
They weren’t regulars in the classic sense, but they were often here. The slightly taller one with the deep dimples and the loud laugh—he always seemed to find some excuse to hover near Shownu, asking questions about the sound system or the protein content of oat milk or whether lifting milk crates counted as a workout. Kihyun didn’t know his name, but he had mentally nicknamed him Flirt-with-Biceps.
And then there was the other one.
He came in, as always, with a scuffed backpack slung over one shoulder, wireless earbuds tucked in, and a look that suggested he had absolutely no interest in being perceived. His hair was distinctive—slightly chaotic, just like the rest of his look—and he had a habit of going straight to the corner table, ordering nothing but a glass of water and disappearing into a sea of schematics and spreadsheets on his screen. Kihyun hadn’t ever seen him speak more than a word or two. He just existed quietly, like static in a room.
Today, though, something shifted.
Instead of heading straight to the corner, the dimpled one stopped short, grabbing his friend by the wrist and steering him toward the counter. The movement jolted Kihyun’s attention away from a cooling tray of sesame banana muffins.
“I’m not ordering,” the emo looking one said flatly, pulling back slightly. His voice was low and oddly soothing, like the kind of voice that didn’t rush unless it had to. “I’m just here to study.”
“No,” Dimple said firmly. “You’re not gonna keep freeloading while I fund Shownu’s protein powder. You’re ordering something.”
Kihyun, hidden mostly behind the espresso machine, caught the irritation rolling off the Cute Emo Guy in waves.
“Why?” the boy muttered. “It’s all just the same stuff anyway. Scones. Muffins. Brownies. Sweet things pretending to be different when they all taste like sugar and beige.”
Dimple elbowed him. “Dude, shut up.”
But it was too late. Kihyun, ladle in hand, lifted his head slowly, eyes narrowing just slightly. Beige?
Behind the counter, Shownu paused, but only to blink. He didn’t do confrontation. Kihyun, however, was built for it.
He stepped into view, wiping his hands on a dish towel that still smelled faintly of orange zest.
“If you want variety,” he said calmly, voice sliding into the space like a note at the end of a bar, “I’ll give you variety.”
The boy turned, surprised. His eyes—dark and a little guarded behind round glasses—met Kihyun’s. There was a moment. Brief. Electric. Disbelieving.
“I’m sorry—what?”
Kihyun shrugged. “If you’re bored of cafés always serving the same old thing, let me make you something you haven’t seen before. Something not beige.” He smiled, the kind that wasn’t quite friendly. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to pay.”
Cute Emo Boy blinked again. “That’s… a bold business model.”
“I’m feeling confident.”
“Or delusional,” the boy said.
“Both,” Kihyun said, without missing a beat. “So what’s it gonna be?”
There was a flicker of something behind the boy’s eyes—curiosity, maybe. Suspicion. But also that stubborn spark that made him take the challenge instead of walking away.
“Fine,” he said, slowly. “Give me your… whatever.”
Kihyun’s mouth curved. “Coming right up.”
As he turned, he caught Hyungwon watching from the side counter where he’d been pretending to study. His brows were raised, eyes dancing.
“What,” Kihyun mouthed.
Hyungwon tilted his head, then mouthed back: He’s exactly your type.
Kihyun ignored him.
Back in the kitchen, he grabbed a bowl and started pulling ingredients without overthinking. No beige. No ordinary. No fear. He didn’t know what this guy liked, but he could guess what he didn’t—and sometimes, that was even more useful.
He didn’t look up again until the pastry was in the oven and the kitchen smelled like spice, citrus, and challenge.
The oven timer ticked in slow, self-important seconds as Kihyun leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching the swirl of late-morning traffic outside the window. The boy—still unnamed in Kihyun’s head, still half-emo, half-mystery—had returned to his usual seat in the corner, earbuds in, hunched over his laptop with one leg tucked under the other like he planned to become one with the chair. He hadn’t looked back toward the counter once.
It was almost infuriating.
Most people, when challenged like that, watched. Waited. Tried to sneak glances to see what kind of magic—or mess—was unfolding behind the scenes. But not him. He was fully committed to ignoring Kihyun’s existence, as if that entire exchange hadn’t just happened.
Kihyun turned away, lips pressed together in a slow, building grin.
Oh, he was going to make him pay attention.
When the pastry came out of the oven, it looked like something from another world entirely—golden and layered, dusted with powdered yuzu and topped with a delicate, candied sage leaf that caught the light like stained glass. It smelled fresh and strange in the best way: a little earthy, a little citrus-bright, with a complexity that didn’t belong in a college café pastry case. It was unapologetically unique. Just like the boy who had unknowingly inspired it.
Kihyun plated it himself. No napkin, no paper bag. A ceramic dish, clean and white. A fork set beside it like punctuation.
He brought it over personally.
The boy looked up when Kihyun approached, one earbud popping out lazily. He blinked at the plate like it had appeared out of nowhere.
“This your revenge?” he asked.
“No,” Kihyun said. “This is my introduction.”
The boy stared at him for a second too long. “That’s dramatic.”
“You’re dramatic,” Kihyun said evenly. “This is me being restrained.”
He placed the plate down gently and turned to leave, but paused at the last second, half-facing him again.
“If you hate it, you don’t need to pay. I’ll just assume you’ve never had real flavor before.“
And with that, he walked back to the counter, refusing—refusing—to look again. Even when Hyungwon, barely looking away from the americano he was making, hissed a barely-contained what the hell was that under his breath.
Kihyun ignored him. He was focused. Cool. Professional. Unbothered.
Which lasted exactly three minutes.
He glanced up—once, quickly. Just enough to see that the boy was still staring at the plate. Hadn’t moved. Hadn’t touched it.
Another minute passed.
Then the fork lifted.
Then a bite.
Then—something changed.
It was small. A shift in his posture, a slow lowering of his shoulders, the tiniest furrow between his brows smoothing as he chewed, slowly, deliberately. His expression didn’t give much away, but Kihyun could feel the change from across the café like a ripple in still water.
Hyungwon raised a brow from his seat, clearly noticing it too.
The boy took another bite, this one faster.
Kihyun exhaled slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching.
He turned back to the sink, rinsing bowls that didn’t need rinsing, trying to act like he hadn’t been tracking every micro-expression from twenty feet away.
A few minutes later, Dimple Boy—still chatting up Shownu at the espresso machine—called out, “Hey, Kyun! You done being weird? You paying for that, or what?”
There was a pause.
Then the boy—Kyun—spoke up, voice calm but louder this time.
“I’m paying.”
Kihyun looked up, startled by how easily the warmth bloomed in his chest. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to hear those words until now.
When the boy walked up to the counter, plate empty except for a few sugared crumbs, he didn’t offer praise. He didn’t say thank you. He just looked Kihyun up and down, eyes sharp behind the glasses, and said, “That was good.”
Kihyun tilted his head. “Just good?”
The boy hesitated, then smiled for the first time—crooked, cautious, but there. It was a smile that looked like it didn’t come out very often, and that made it worth more.
“I’d eat it again.”
“Then come back tomorrow,” Kihyun said, already knowing he would.
The boy held his gaze a beat longer before nodding once and returning to his seat, already pulling his laptop back open like nothing had happened.
But something had.
And Kihyun—still standing behind the counter, cheeks flushed with pride and something just shy of intrigue—knew exactly what it was.
The next morning arrived with less poetry and more spilled coffee.
Kihyun was just finishing up his nth batch of cupcake batter when Hyungwon slunk in through the back entrance, still wearing the oversized hoodie he’d slept in and sunglasses he definitely didn’t need indoors. He drifted toward the front like a wraith and poured himself a cup of dark roast without offering a greeting, which was, of course, how he usually said good morning.
Kihyun didn’t look up. “If you’re going to be useless, at least be quiet about it.”
Hyungwon made a sound halfway between a yawn and a scoff. “Love you too.”
By the time the café opened, Kihyun had the first round of pastries out—this morning, a row of honeyed fig tartlets and a pan of blackberry thyme shortbread still cooling on the rack. He wasn’t thinking about anyone in particular, obviously. Just trying new combinations. Practicing his range. Being creative. Like always.
He tied on his apron and went to check the counter setup, pausing briefly to wipe his hands and adjust his name tag.
That’s when he saw it.
His hand froze.
The name tag did not say Kihyun.
It said:
Chef Babycakes
In pink permanent marker. With glitter.
Kihyun stared at it in silent horror. Then, slowly, as if to confirm that this was his cursed reality, he turned to where Hyungwon had taken over the espresso machine, whistling tunelessly like he was innocent and bored and not the absolute bane of Kihyun’s existence.
“Today’s your last day in the world of the living Chae,I hope you’ve written your will already ,” Kihyun said flatly.
“You’re welcome,” Hyungwon replied, pressing a button on the machine with a flourish. “I figured it was time the world knew your real title.”
Kihyun was still plotting exactly how he was going to end their friendship when the front door jingled.
He looked up—and of course it was him.
The boy from yesterday. Cute, surly, stubborn. The walking contradiction who had eaten Kihyun’s pastry like it was an experience and then walked out like it was just breakfast.
He entered the café with the same casual disinterest, earbuds in, hands in his hoodie pocket, looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. Kihyun watched him scan the room, fully expecting him to head straight for his usual corner.
Instead, he made a slow but direct path toward the counter.
Hyungwon, now all smug amusement, stepped aside just enough to let Kihyun take the lead.
The boy’s eyes drifted to the menu overhead, then down to the display case, then—
He squinted. At Kihyun’s chest.
Kihyun didn’t realize what he was looking at until the boy’s lip curled, just slightly.
“Chef Babycakes?” he said.
Kihyun did not flinch. “That’s right.”
There was a pause.
“I can’t tell if that’s tragic or iconic,” the boy said thoughtfully.
“I lean iconic,” Kihyun replied, as if he’d been using the name for years. “It’s part of the brand.”
Another pause. And then, miraculously—another tiny smile. It was crooked, brief, but it counted.
Kihyun leaned in slightly, elbows on the counter. “Still bored of sugar and beige?”
The boy looked over the pastry case, eyes pausing briefly on the tartlets before settling on the shortbread.
“Maybe I’m reconsidering.”
Kihyun didn’t smirk—he wasn’t that obvious—but it was close. “Want me to surprise you again?”
The boy raised an eyebrow. “Is that your thing now?”
“It’s always been my thing. You’re just late to the fan club.”
Another half-smile, this one a little sharper. “Fine. Surprise me, Chef Babycakes.”
Kihyun exhaled slowly through his nose as he turned away, pretending not to care how smug Hyungwon looked from behind the espresso machine.
When he returned with the shortbread on a small plate, the boy accepted it wordlessly. As he turned to go, Kihyun called after him, casually:
“You never told me your name.”
The boy stopped, just a beat.
“Changkyun,” he said over his shoulder.
Kihyun blinked. Filed it away. Said, “Kihyun,” in return.
Changkyun gave a single nod like he’d suspected it, then walked off, earbud sliding back into place.
Kihyun watched him sit. Saw the way he took the first bite like he didn’t want to like it. Then the second like he’d already lost the battle.
He turned back to find Hyungwon watching him like a cat who’d caught something squirming.
“Shut up,” Kihyun said before he could speak.
“I didn’t say anything,” Hyungwon replied, delighted.
The next week followed a strange new rhythm. Changkyun began showing up more often, always around the same time, always claiming some version of “just passing through” or “good study lighting.” But he ordered something different each time. Always from Kihyun. Always with that same neutral expression, like he didn’t care, like it was no big deal.
Kihyun knew better.
He started baking a little extra of the weird stuff. Raspberry basil galettes. Earl grey and blood orange buns. Black sesame matcha pound cake with edible flowers. Nothing boring. Nothing beige. Every day, a little invention. A little dare.
If anything, Changkyun only grew bolder with time. Not in the loud way—not like Jooheon, who continued to turn bright red every time Shownu so much as lifted a full milk crate—but in small, razor-sharp ways. A smirk here. A pointed comment there. An unflinching gaze that made Kihyun forget whether he was supposed to be melting chocolate or slicing pears.
“You ever smile?” he asked once.
“I am,” Changkyun said.
“That’s not a smile. That’s a cryptic riddle.”
Changkyun just shrugged. “I’m an engineer.”
“God,” Kihyun muttered. “That explains everything.”
In the background, life moved on around them. Jooheon came in often, always with questions for Shownu, who remained serenely, frustratingly oblivious—lifting, organizing, cleaning, just existing with those soft, immovable muscles like he wasn’t quietly the subject of half Jooheon’s internal poetry. Meanwhile, Hyungwon’s boyfriend,Minhyuk slipped in and out at strange hours, always with a new excuse, always hovering just close enough to brush Hyungwon’s sleeve behind the counter or leave a note folded like origami in the pastry box labeled for “storage.”
Kihyun noticed everything.
It was part of what made him good at this—at food, at people, at knowing what someone wanted before they knew how to ask. It was the same instinct that had him plating a chocolate chestnut mousse the moment Changkyun walked in looking like he hadn’t slept, or switching to citrus when he noticed how he lingered on anything with lemon.
And still, Changkyun refused to call it what it was.
“You’re here a lot,” Kihyun said one day, sliding a slice of fig and smoked honey tart across the counter.
“It’s quiet,” Changkyun said.
“It’s not.”
“…You’re convenient.”
Kihyun raised a brow.
“…Your pastries are convenient,” he corrected, a little too quickly.
Kihyun smirked. “Sure. That’s why you’re here at 8 a.m. on a Saturday with bed hair and no classes.”
Changkyun didn’t reply. Just took the plate and walked back to his seat, ears faintly pink.
That evening, after the café had emptied out and Hyungwon had vanished off somewhere in Minhyuk’s hoodie, Kihyun stayed behind to clean. The windows were fogged. The floor smelled faintly of espresso and sugar. And on the corner table, long after its owner had left, sat a single napkin—folded neatly, tucked under the empty plate.
On it, scribbled in sharp black ink, was a name.
Changkyun.
And below it, small but certain:
Your food isn’t beige.
One late morning, Changkyun didn’t come in.
Kihyun didn’t notice at first—not officially. He was halfway through glazing a tray of lavender almond cream puffs when Hyungwon slid onto a stool beside the pastry counter with a textbook he had no intention of reading.
“Where’s your favorite emo boy?” he asked innocently.
“Busy,” Kihyun said. Too quickly.
Hyungwon hummed, flipping a page. “So what’s today’s masterpiece for no one?”
Kihyun rolled his eyes and said nothing.
A moment later, Minhyuk entered the café like a burst of energy in the form of a color-coordinated outfit. He spotted Hyungwon and beelined for him, planting a quick kiss on his cheek before hopping up onto the stool beside him.
Kihyun barely looked up from his piping bag.
“Why does he look like someone just told him gluten is canceled?” Minhyuk whispered.
“Because his emo muse is late,” Hyungwon whispered back.
Kihyun didn’t even flinch. “You’re both fired.”
“I don’t even work here, dumbass” Minhyuk replied, sipping his iced americano.
Minhyuk leaned forward, peering over the counter like he was inspecting Kihyun’s soul. “Wait—is he actually making pastries for someone specific? That’s adorable. Kihyunnie’s in love.”
“I am not,” Kihyun said, entirely unconvincing.
Minhyuk gasped theatrically. “Does he even know?”
“Nope,” Hyungwon said. “He thinks Kihyun’s a sentient oven.”
Minhyuk clutched his chest. “So romantic.”
“Can you both go away?” Kihyun muttered.
Hyungwon rested his chin in his hand. “Not until you admit you miss him.”
“I don’t even know who you’re talking about,” Kihyun said, even as he dusted the finished puffs with just a little too much care.
Jooheon burst through the café door like the humidity had chased him inside. “Why does it feel like I’m swimming through air? My shirt is sticking to places I didn’t even know had nerves—”
He cut himself off mid-rant, eyes catching on a familiar figure leaning lazily against the counter.
“Minhyuk?”
Minhyuk turned, iced drink in hand, already smiling like he’d been waiting for this moment. “Jooheon! Long time no scream.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Minhyuk sipped calmly. “I’m here to watch my boyfriend work.”
Jooheon blinked. Then blinked again. He glanced to his left.
Hyungwon looked up from the order screen with the mild, unhurried gaze of someone who’d absolutely just heard everything and couldn’t be less fazed. “Hey.”
It took Jooheon a solid five seconds to compute.
“He’s your boyfriend?” he finally asked, voice climbing into what could generously be called a wheeze.
Minhyuk grinned wider. “Since freshman year. Welcome to the plot twist.”
Jooheon gawked. “I—I thought you were dating that film major with the—what happened to—”
Hyungwon held up a hand. “That was a phase. We don’t speak of that era.”
“Oh my god,” Jooheon muttered, turning to Minhyuk again. “You didn’t think to mention this?”
“You never asked,” Minhyuk said sweetly.
Before Jooheon could recover, his eyes snagged on another figure—Shownu, behind the bar, lifting a crate of cold brew with perfect, effortless form. The muscles in his forearms flexed like a quiet threat to the laws of gravity.
Jooheon forgot language.
His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again.
“Dude,” he said faintly.
Shownu glanced over, nodded politely. “Hi.”
Jooheon lingered near the counter like he was hoping the floor might tip slightly and slide him into Shownu’s arms. Instead, Shownu adjusted the crate and disappeared into the back, utterly unaware of the chaos he’d left in his wake.
Minhyuk elbowed Hyungwon. “Do we think they’ve even made eye contact?”
“Once,” Hyungwon murmured. “It broke Jooheon’s soul.”
Kihyun, piping cream into pastry shells with methodical precision, didn’t say a word. His lips twitched—subtly, stubbornly—but the smile didn’t quite meet his eyes. Not that he’d admit it, but it had nothing to do with Jooheon.
It had everything to do with the fact that, even before the door chimed again, he was already reaching for a plate. Already plating today’s invention like muscle memory.
So when it finally did open—five minutes late, no apology in sight—and Jooheon called out a familiar, “Yo, Kyun!” across the café, Kihyun didn’t look up.
He didn’t need to.
Until he did.
Because Minhyuk, who had been mid-sip, suddenly choked slightly. “Im Fucking Changkyun Is that a perm?”
“Whoa,” Hyungwon added, eyes widening. “You look so fluffy”
Even Shownu peeked out from the back with a rare, mildly impressed, “Huh.”
Kihyun’s nosy ass stood no chance.
He looked up—and immediately did a double take.
Changkyun stood there in the doorway, hoodie slouched over his frame, laptop case slung across his body, and a fresh perm sitting proudly atop his head like it had always belonged there. Soft curls framed his glasses, made his eyes look bigger, rounder, warmer. He looked, for lack of a better word, munchable.
Absolutely, devastatingly cute.
Kihyun felt his brain short-circuit. His hands froze above the pastry. His ears turned a dangerous shade of pink.
This wasn’t fair.
Changkyun, ever oblivious, made his way in like nothing was different.
Jooheon gestured dramatically. “Tell him he looks cute.”
“I look ridiculous,” Changkyun muttered, shoving his curls back. “This wasn’t even my idea—Jooheon forced me into it.”
“It was time,” Jooheon said solemnly. “You were one washed hoodie away from becoming a forest cryptid.”
Changkyun ignored him and headed to the counter, stopping in front of Kihyun like they did this every day. Which, lately, they kind of did.
“So,” he said, eyes scanning the lineup behind the glass. “What do you have for me today?”
Kihyun’s panic shrank just enough for his instincts to kick in. He forced calm into his posture, into the slight raise of one eyebrow.
“I was wondering when you’d show,” he said smoothly, sliding the plate forward like a challenge. “Lemon thyme tart with a pine nut crust..”
Changkyun inspected it with theatrical suspicion. “Looks like it cost a semester’s tuition.”
Kihyun tilted his head. “It’s technically free because it’s not on the menu”
“I still feel judged,” Changkyun said, but took the plate and retreated to his usual seat, curls bouncing slightly with every step.
Kihyun let out a breath only once the boy was facing away. He caught Minhyuk watching him with a sly grin, Hyungwon mouthing you’re down bad behind his boyfriend’s shoulder.
He rolled his eyes and focused on restocking the counter, pretending very hard not to glance up every other minute.
It was nearly closing when Changkyun returned to the counter, plate scraped clean, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his arms.
“How much?” he asked.
Kihyun waved him off, not even looking up from the sink. “Nothing. You’re basically my experimental guinea pig.”
Changkyun scoffed. “That’s a terrible business strategy.”
“Good thing I’m not here for profit,” Kihyun replied, glancing up now.
There was a pause. A challenge. The usual edge of banter lingering between them.
But this time, Changkyun didn’t argue. Just gave a lopsided shrug, his hand fiddling with the strap of his bag as he turned to leave.
Kihyun watched him go, heart tapping a little too eagerly in his chest.
And then—impulse, pure and sharp—he spoke.
“Hey.”
Changkyun paused at the door, half-turning, eyebrows raised like he expected Kihyun to throw another sarcastic jab.
Instead, Kihyun wiped his hands on a dish towel, leaned on the counter slightly, and said—quiet, but clear:
“I like the curls. They make you look… kinda cute.”
There was a beat of silence.
Changkyun blinked. His fingers ghosted over the edge of his hair, pushing one curl back behind his ear like he hadn’t meant to do it at all.
“I look like a poodle.”
“A cute poodle,” Kihyun said, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “The expensive kind. With a skincare routine.”
That earned him a real laugh—short and a little embarrassed. Changkyun ducked his head and shook it, but the grin he tried to hide was too slow to fade.
He didn’t say anything else. Just gave Kihyun one last glance—soft, almost shy—before heading out into the night.
And Kihyun?
He stared at the door long after it shut, towel still in hand, like the air Changkyun had left behind wasn’t quite done with him yet.
Time, as it does when you’re not paying attention, began to fold in on itself.
Somewhere between the fourth experimental pastry and the sixteenth shared eye-roll, the rhythm of Kihyun’s days shifted. Changkyun started showing up more than “occasionally.” First for pastries, then for company, then—eventually—for reasons he didn’t bother explaining. Kihyun didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.
The café became more than a stop on campus. It became a nucleus.
There were snapshots—unwritten chapters of afternoons and evenings stitched together by caffeine and poorly hidden feelings. Minhyuk cramming at a side table while Hyungwon cards one hand through his hair and scrolls memes with the other. Jooheon DJing a “productive vibes only” playlist that inexplicably included three EDM remixes of some artist who goes by H-ONE. Changkyun and Shownu having a long, inexplicable conversation about the physics of French presses. And Kihyun, in the middle of it all, hands always busy, mind never quiet, heart catching on every quiet moment when Changkyun laughed at something only he heard.
It was good.
It was easy.
It was a little dangerous.
Because when you get used to someone being around, you forget what it means to want them to stay.
The café was quiet. End-of-day quiet. Tables wiped, lights dimmed, machines powered down to their gentle sleep modes. The hum of closing time filled the space—less sound, more atmosphere. Shownu was stacking chairs without being asked. Hyungwon was “supervising” with his chin resting on a broom handle. Kihyun was still at the counter, drying a glass he’d already dried twice.
Changkyun had just left. There was still a faint trace of his cologne lingering—a woodsy, bookish kind of scent Kihyun would never admit to noticing.
But he hadn’t stopped smiling since the door shut behind him.
Hyungwon noticed first, of course.
“You look like you just got a hand-written letter from your long lost husband who's at war,” he said lazily.
Kihyun glanced up. “No one even writes letters anymore.”
“You do when it’s love,” Hyungwon deadpanned. “Or when you’re a pining pastry nerd pretending you’re not in a slow-burn rom-com.”
Kihyun rolled his eyes and set the glass down, but he didn’t argue. Mostly because he couldn’t stop grinning like a thirteen-year-old with a crush and a secret.
Shownu chimed in—gently, as always. “You really like him, huh.”
It wasn’t a question. And still, Kihyun froze for half a second before exhaling like he was releasing something he’d been holding way too tightly.
“Yeah,” he admitted.
Hyungwon clapped once, startling a pigeon outside. “Then what the hell are you waiting for?”
Kihyun narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know, maybe for a sign from the universe? A little drama? A musical number?”
“You’re the drama,” Hyungwon said. “And if you break into song, I’m quitting.”
“I just…” Kihyun hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek. “It’s been good, you know? Easy. I don’t want to mess that up.”
“Then don’t mess it up,” Shownu said simply, wiping down the espresso machine. “Just… tell him. Be honest. You’re always honest in the kitchen.”
Kihyun blinked at that. Of all people, Shownu somehow always got to the center of a thing without stepping on the edges.
There was a long pause.
Then Kihyun looked down at the spotless counter, wiped his palms on a dish towel, and said, “Okay.”
Hyungwon blinked. “Wait. Really?”
“Yeah.”
Shownu smiled. “Good.”
Hyungwon leaned in, suspicious. “What’s the plan? Are you going to ask him out with a tart? A pie? A metaphor?”
Kihyun didn’t answer. Just turned, tossed the towel onto the counter, and headed toward the back with purpose.
“You’re gonna bake it into a pastry, aren’t you,” Hyungwon called after him.
Kihyun’s voice floated back, smug and soft and just a little giddy.
“Obviously.”
Changkyun showed up late that day, hoodie strings pulled tight, hair still damp from the rain. He stomped the water off his shoes like a disgruntled cat, grumbled something about terrible campus drainage, and made a beeline for the counter where Kihyun stood wiping down a tray.
“You forgot my water,” he accused, immediately.
Kihyun didn’t even flinch. He just passed him a glass, already filled, with a smug smile and a flutter in his chest.
“I didn’t forget,” he said. “I’m just establishing dominance.”
Changkyun narrowed his eyes, taking a sip. “You’re five foot eight.”
“Five foot nine,” Kihyun muttered. “And a half.”
The day moved slowly after that. Customers trickled in, the playlist looped through mellow indie tracks, and rain tapped against the windows in a lazy rhythm. Changkyun set up at his usual table by the window and worked in bouts—coding for ten minutes, sighing dramatically for five, and glancing over at the counter in clear, deliberate longing.
Every time Kihyun passed by, he caught a new pout aimed directly at him.
It was working.
He was cute. Stupidly, stubbornly cute. And Kihyun had barely held it together all day.
The café had long emptied out, the sky outside dipped in that soft purplish hue just before sunset. Rain had cleared, leaving the windows streaked and glowing, and the air inside had that cozy warmth that only came from sugar, coffee, and the quiet of closing time.
Changkyun was still packing up, sliding his laptop into his bag with his usual amount of dramatic sighing. “Guess my pastry guy forgot me today,” he called without looking up.
Kihyun’s heart was in his throat.
“No,” he said, too casually. “I didn’t forget. It’s just not ready.”
That got Changkyun’s attention.
He looked up slowly, brows pinched, suspicious. “You’re making me wait now? That’s rude. You know I’m a student in STEM. My time is extremely precious .”
Kihyun didn’t answer. Just gave him a look over the counter. “Sit back down. You’ll live.”
Changkyun made a whole production of sighing again, but he sat. Kihyun turned away before he could lose his nerve, catching Hyungwon’s eye as the taller man untied his apron.
“You got this?” Hyungwon said under his breath.
“No,” Kihyun muttered. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
Shownu gave him a supportive pat on the back, like this was a game day and not the most nerve-wracking moment of Kihyun’s entire pastry-making existence.
The door clicked shut behind them a moment later. Kihyun didn’t turn around. Just took a steady breath and walked to the fridge.
Behind him, Changkyun called, “Did you kill them?”
Kihyun returned a minute later, carefully balancing a white plate, something domed and shining sitting on it. He set it down in front of Changkyun without a word.
The younger man stared at it, then at him. “This is suspiciously dramatic.”
“You’re suspiciously dramatic,” Kihyun snapped, then winced. “Wait, no—sorry. I’m nervous. Just—open it.”
Changkyun blinked. Lifted the lid.
And then he just… stared.
It was a tart, technically. But barely. The crust was pressed into the shape of an unfolding flower, the folds careful, delicate, like something that had taken too long and too many tries. On top, layered petals in violet cream and soft lilac, piped so precisely they could have been mistaken for real. At the center, a candied blackberry, dark and glistening. Scattered around it were tiny sugared flower petals—some real, some made from spun sugar. A mix of violets, lavenders, and periwinkle.
His favorite color.
His favorite flavor profile.
His favorite flower.
Changkyun didn’t say anything for a long moment.
Kihyun swallowed hard. “So.”
He stuffed his hands into his apron pockets and shifted his weight like he might actually run.
“I know this probably seems ridiculous. And I didn’t plan it to be, I just—I bake. It’s how I think. And you kept showing up, and making faces, and being weird, and asking for whatever I made that day, and suddenly I started making things hoping you’d come. I started trying to figure out what you’d like without asking, just… because it felt good to get it right.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “And then you said that thing. About how desserts are too sweet and people ruin them, and how you liked purple, and flowers, and how flavors should be interesting, not just sugary. And I don’t know, that got stuck in my head.”
Changkyun was still staring at the tart.
Kihyun’s voice dropped, quiet and rough.
“So I made this. I’ve been making this for days. Practicing. It’s weird, I know. But I wanted it to taste like you. Not literally—god, I mean, like something you’d like, obviously. Not that I—okay, you know what I mean.”
He was flustered. Obviously.
Changkyun looked up then.
His expression was unreadable—eyes soft, mouth unreadable, posture still.
Kihyun cleared his throat. “It’s a confession. Obviously. I just. I didn’t know how else to say it without, you know. Ruining it.”
Silence stretched between them. Not heavy—just full.
Then Changkyun stood.
And walked to him.
Kihyun watched him come, heart racing so loud he was surprised the espresso machine wasn’t rattling.
“Did you really practice for this?” Changkyun asked softly.
“Yes.”
“You could’ve just said something.”
“I’m saying something now.”
A pause.
“Okay,” Changkyun whispered. “So now what?”
Kihyun exhaled shakily. “Now you do whatever you want.”
Changkyun stepped closer, and then closer still.
Kihyun had a thousand thoughts at once—what if he misread this, what if the tart sucked, what if Changkyun hated violets, what if—
And then Changkyun leaned in and kissed him.
It was soft. Intentional. The kind of kiss that started slow, just in case, but grew into something warm and certain. Kihyun’s hand found the side of his waist without thinking. Changkyun’s fingers curled into his shirt.
They stayed like that, just long enough.
When they parted, Changkyun kept close. “I guess I like this one too.”
Kihyun blinked at him, dazed. “The tart?”
“No. You.”
Kihyun groaned. “You’re so corny.”
“You’re the one confessing through florals and fruit.”
Kihyun laughed, forehead dropping to Changkyun’s shoulder. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t,” Changkyun murmured, smiling against his ear. “You like me. You made me a flower.”
“I’m never making you anything again.”
“Yes you will.”
Kihyun sighed. “God, I will.”
And he would.
Again and again.