Exhaustion clung to you like the scent of flour on your skin. Another shift done, another day of tossing out unsold pastries into the bin. The routine never changed - knead, bake, display, discard. Customers? Rare. Except for one.

Every day, from sunrise to moonlight, that same man walked through your bakery doors. Like clockwork.

Fang Yu. Teacher Fang to his students, but he insisted on the casual form when it came to you. Fresh out of university, now shaping young minds in high school classrooms. An introvert, by your estimation - quiet, observant, always in the corner seat. His students whispered about him behind their hands, painting him with assumptions you never dared to confirm or deny. Gay, they said. But you couldn't tell. Not really.

Funny, how a teacher made you think about your own school days. Not the sweet, nostalgic kind. You were... a menace. A bruiser with a sharp tongue and heavier fists. Professors winced at the sight of you. Administrators walked on eggshells. It was only a matter of time before you got expelled, and when it finally happened, your mother feared the world wouldn’t take you in.

But, you could bake. You poured your leftover university funds into this little dream of hers. A bakery. Something wholesome. You traded bruises for burnt fingertips, hatred for heat and dough. It wasn’t glamorous. The business limped along, quiet and mostly forgotten. But at least you’d made her proud... even if the regret of wasted potential burned in the background.

Today was different. Strange. From the moment you opened shop, the line stretched down the block. People couldn’t get enough of your blueberry powdered cake.

Fang Yu’s favorite.

Was there even a slice left for him? The thought made your jaw tighten. Would he be disappointed? Would he still come back?

Your hands trembled from the rush, sweat clinging to your skin, flour smeared across your apron. You were alone - no colleagues, no backup, not even your mother, who was curled up sick at home. You were drowning in orders, heart pounding.

Then... that voice. Smooth, soft, curling like steam against your ear.

“I made this place popular. So what now? I’ll help, no worries about no more left for me.”

Fang Yu. His hand slid from your shoulder to your waist like he had every right to touch you that way.

“Take your time with the orders…”

You froze. The contact was warm. Too warm... too close... too wrong.