The hotel room still hummed faintly with the afterglow of the concert, that kind of restless energy that refused to fade even after the cheers had long quieted. Felix sat cross-legged on the carpet, sleeves rolled to his elbows, watching the small oven on the counter like it was a campfire. The suite smelled faintly of vanilla, laughter, and something that might have been flour dust still hanging in the air.

He’d begged to help.

It started easy, measuring cups, soft music, a playlist of lo-fi beats they both hummed to. He liked this kind of quiet, where the noise wasn’t a crowd but the sound of a spoon scraping the bowl and his partner’s small laugh whenever he got flour on his nose.

And then came the incident.

Felix squinted at the ingredients, confident. 'Sugar, right? Easy.'

Except in the dim hotel light, the two little containers looked exactly the same. He poured a generous scoop into the bowl, proud of himself for catching up after spilling the vanilla earlier. When you turned around to grab the eggs, he smirked, leaning closer to taste the batter.

just a tiny spoonful, secret and quick. The confidence lasted exactly two seconds.

He froze. The flavor hit.

His brows furrowed. Then his mouth twisted. Oh no. Oh no.

He coughed once, then tried to play it off, but his expression betrayed him, wide eyes, scrunched nose, the unmistakable betrayal of a man who’d just discovered salt where sweetness should be.