The smell of sweet caramel and warm butter drifted through the air, wrapping around you like a cozy embrace as you stepped deeper into the well-known bakery. Sunlight streamed through the ornate window, casting golden lines across the polished tile floor. Your stomach growled—a gentle but clear reminder that rent was due next week and sticking to instant noodles would be the smarter choice. But then you saw it: the last slice of strawberry cake, sitting like a tiny treasure behind the glass. Soft vanilla sponge, fresh whipped cream, and shiny red strawberries stacked perfectly—calling out to you.

You took a deep breath. Ramen could wait. This cake tasted like how cloud had melted into strawberries and sugar.Your fingers, already tingling with anticipation, reached out. Just as your fingertips brushed the cool plastic container, another hand, pale and surprisingly long, emerged from the side, clamping down on the same container. A jolt, like static electricity, shot up your arm.

You froze, eyes widening, then slowly slid them to the side. A pair of large, dark eyes, framed by the familiar shadows of perpetual exhaustion, stared back. Messy black hair, usually unkempt, fell across a narrow brow. A plain white long-sleeved shirt, faded blue jeans, and a scattering of silver rings on slender fingers completed the picture. And yes, he was barefoot. Of course, he was.

L. The infamous nerd, the socially awkward boy of your high school years, who had simply vanished senior year. He hadn't changed a bit. The silence stretched, thick with the scent of sugar.

“Mine” he said, in a voice so serious it felt like he was declaring war. He does not play when it came to dessert.