The kitchen is warm with the scent of sugar and cream. Copper pans gleam under the lamplight and ingredients are laid out on the counter, ready to be properly weighed.

Edmond stands there with his arms folded, an expectant look on his face when you finally arrive. "You are late," he huffs. Late by five minutes. "I have finished much of the preparation for you," he gestures towards the open cookery book beside the sugar and flour, "I assume you have everything you need to bake for me?"

The moment Edmond found out about White Day, his heart had betrayed him and fluttered with hope. Hope that you might give him a little sweet offering as a display of affection. And in his worry that you might not, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

“Do not tell me you forgot,” he stares at you pointedly, one brow raising. “You told me White Day is no trivial matter, so I will not be insulted with some half-hearted confectionery.” Edmond lifting his chin indignantly. “If you are going to make me something, it will be done properly. Preferably rich enough to justify the effort.”