Serving: An Unforgettable (Baking) Sensation
It had started as a simple, brilliant idea.
Trey's birthday was in three days. And Trey, the ever-reliable, kind, and patient Vice-Dorm Leader of Heartslabyul, was always the one baking for others. He baked for unbirthdays, for club meetings, for special events, or just because he felt like it. He was the one who provided the comfort, the sweetness, the reliability.
This time, you were determined, someone was going to bake for him. And that someone was going to be you.
There was just one, catastrophic flaw in this otherwise perfect plan: you were an absolute, unmitigated, walking disaster in a kitchen.
You couldn't so much as boil water without setting off a smoke alarm. You had a special talent for turning toast into charcoal. But this was Trey. He deserved the effort. How hard, you reasoned, could a simple cake be? You'd just follow a recipe.
Which is how you found yourself in the Heartslabyul kitchen, late in the evening when you were certain it would be empty. You had a cookbook propped open—one of Trey's, in fact, which you'd "borrowed"—and a determined, slightly terrified look on your face.
"Alright," you muttered to yourself, staring at the array of ingredients. "Flour. Sugar. Eggs. Butter. Easy."
It was not easy.
The first disaster was the flour. The recipe called for two cups. You, in your infinite wisdom, decided to measure it directly over the bowl. A sudden, phantom breeze—or perhaps just your own clumsy hands—caused the measuring cup to tip. A great, white cloud erupted from the bowl, blanketing you and a three-foot radius of the counter in a fine, powdery layer.
"Okay," you coughed, waving a hand in front of your face. You looked like a ghost. "That's fine. That's… that's fine." You patted your head, sending another small plume of flour into the air from your hair.
Next, the eggs. "Separate the yolks," the recipe instructed. You stared at the egg in your hand as if it were a complex magical equation. You cracked it against the bowl. Half the shell, along with the yolk and white, plopped into the flour.
"Nononono…" you hissed, plunging your hand into the bowl to retrieve the shell fragments. You emerged with a hand caked in a sticky, grotesque glove of egg-flour paste. You managed to fish out the shell, but your hand was a lost cause. You wiped it on an apron you'd donned, succeeding only in smearing the goop across your front.
This pattern continued for nearly an hour. The butter was too hard, so you'd tried to soften it in the microwave, only to create a small pond of melted grease. The sugar… you were pretty sure you'd added the right amount. Maybe. You'd lost count after the flour incident.
Finally, it was time for the mixer. You stared at the intimidating appliance. You had a bowl of lumpy, questionable batter. You had a mixer. You put the two together.
You failed, however, to notice the speed dial was set to "Volcano."
The second the mixer blades hit the batter, a high-pitched WHIIIIIR filled the room, followed immediately by a wet SPLAT-SPLAT-SPLAT. The batter, brown and viscous, launched itself from the bowl with the velocity of a t-shirt cannon. It hit the wall. It hit the cabinets. A particularly large glob sailed over your head and landed with a wet thwack on the ceiling.
You stared, wide-eyed, as the mixer continued its rampage, flinging the last remnants of your cake batter across the kitchen. You slammed the 'off' button, your entire front now a Jackson Pollock painting of sugar, eggs, and chocolate.
Defeated, but not destroyed, you scraped the meager amount of batter left in the bottom of the bowl into a pan. "It's fine," you said, your voice trembling. "It'll just be… a small cake."
You put it in the oven, set the timer, and slid to the floor, leaning against a cabinet, too tired and sticky to move.
You must have dozed off, because the next thing you knew, the kitchen was full of smoke.
"THE CAKE!"
You scrambled up, yanking the oven door open. A cloud of acrid, black smoke billowed out, making you cough. You grabbed a (flour-covered) oven mitt and pulled out the pan.
It was… tragic. It wasn't a cake. It was a single, blackened, smoking, rock-hard puck of carbon. It was smaller than your hand and looked like a meteorite.
That was when you finally broke. You slumped against the counter, staring at the charred remains of your hard work. The kitchen was a warzone. You were covered, from head to toe, in flour, egg, melted butter, and splattered batter. You had a distinct, and somehow crunchy, patch of it in your hair. And you had nothing to show for it but a hockey puck.
You put your head in your hands, trying not to cry, when the kitchen door swung open.
"Hey, is someone in… here?"
You froze.
Trey Clover stopped dead in the doorway, his green eyes wide as saucers. He took in the scene with a slow, deliberate scan. He saw the flour on the floor, like a fresh layer of snow. He saw the batter on the walls. He saw the smoldering object in the sink that you'd thrown there in a panic.
And then, his eyes landed on you.
You, who looked like you had just survived a bakery explosion. You were staring at him, your face a mixture of horror, exhaustion, and guilt, with a perfect, distinct smear of chocolate batter on your cheek.
Silence hung in the air for a long, heavy moment. You were sure he was going to yell, or banish you from the kitchen forever, or just… call a magical sanitation crew.
Then, his shoulders started to shake. A low, rumbling sound started in his chest. A second later, Trey Clover was leaning against the doorframe, trying (and failing) to stifle a deep, warm, uncontrollable laugh.
"T-Trey!" you squeaked, your face burning hot with embarrassment. "It's… I… I can explain! I was… uh… experimenting?"
He pushed his glasses up his nose, his eyes sparkling with an amusement so profound it was almost blinding. "Experimenting," he repeated, his voice choked with laughter. "With… batter propulsion? I have to say, love, your range is impressive. I think you got the ceiling."
He walked further into the kitchen, his shoes making a slight crunch in the flour-dusted tiles. He looked at the smoking puck in the sink and poked it with a spatula. It made a solid clink sound.
"My word," he said, turning to you with a grin. "I don't think I've ever achieved this level of… structural integrity. What is this, a new kind of brick?"
"It was supposed to be a cake!" you finally wailed, the frustration and exhaustion bubbling over. "For your birthday! You always bake for everyone else, and I just… I wanted to do something for you! And I… I ruined everything!"
The laughter died in Trey's throat, replaced by something much softer. He looked at the absolute devastation, and then back at your tear-streaked, batter-covered face.
"Hey, hey," he said softly, crossing the room in two strides. He ignored the mess, pulling a clean cloth from a drawer and wetting it at the sink. He gently began to dab at the chocolate on your cheek. "It's alright. Shhh, it's alright."
"But it's not," you mumbled, as he carefully worked to clean your face. "It's a disaster. And I'm a disaster."
"You are not a disaster," he said, his voice firm but kind. He paused, his thumb brushing over your cheek. "You… you did all this? For me?"
You nodded miserably, a small tear tracing a clean path through the flour on your cheek.
"You are…" he sighed, a small smile playing on his lips, "an absolute menace, you know that?" He reached up, and you flinched, thinking he was going to point out another flaw. Instead, his thumb gently swiped the most prominent glob of chocolate batter from your cheek.
You watched, confused, as he looked at the smear on his thumb. Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he brought his thumb to his mouth and licked the batter off.
He paused, tasting it thoughtfully, his head tilting. "Hmm."
"You… you licked it?!" you whispered, horrified. "It's probably raw! And full of shells!"
He chuckled. "I'll risk it. And honestly…" he added, "it's… not the worst thing I've ever tasted. The intent is delicious." He smiled, that warm, reassuring smile that always made you feel safe. "Though, I think you might have used salt instead of baking soda."
"Oh." You looked down, your embarrassment returning.
"Alright," he said, his tone shifting into his 'responsible Vice-Dorm Leader' voice, though the amusement was still there. "Here's the new plan. We are going to clean all of this up. We're going to air this place out. And then tomorrow… you and I are going to bake a cake. Together. I'll teach you. Deal?"
You looked up at him, a small, watery smile on your face. "Deal."
"Good. Now, the cleanup." He surveyed the room like a general. "This is a two-person job. At least." He grabbed a bucket, you grabbed a mop, and the great cleaning began.
It was… intimate, in its own ridiculous way. You were a disaster at cleaning, too. You tried to mop the floor and immediately slipped on a patch of microwaved butter, only for Trey to catch you by the waist, pulling you flush against his chest with a soft oomph.
"Whoa there," he laughed, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Let's not add a hospital visit to the 'disaster' list." You stayed there for a second, your heart pounding, his arms a strong, steady presence around your flour-dusted apron.
He let you go, and you both got back to work, a comfortable silence falling, broken only by the sound of scrubbing. He tackled the walls, and you, having been demoted from mopping, were on counter duty.
"You know," he said, wiping a stubborn chocolate streak, "I'm still genuinely curious about the physics of how you got batter on the ceiling. That's… that's new."
"It was the mixer," you mumbled, scrubbing at a hardened patch of egg. "It… it betrayed me."
He chuckled, and as he turned, he stopped. "Hold still."
"What? What is it? Is it a bug?"
"No, no," he said, stepping closer. He gently, so gently, reached up to your head. "It's… just… a small bit of… eggshell. Right here." He plucked a perfect, tiny piece of shell from your hair, holding it up for you to see before flicking it into the sink.
"I am a mess," you sighed, hiding your face in your hands.
"You are," he agreed, but his voice was kind. He pulled your hands away from your face and used his apron—which was miraculously still clean—to wipe a smudge of flour off your nose. "But you're my mess. And you went to war with baking… for me. I think that's the most ridiculously sweet thing anyone's ever done."
He leaned in, and this time, it wasn't to inspect batter or remove shells. He pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to your lips. It was warm, and soft, and tasted faintly of the mint on his breath… and the flour still on your face.
It was perfect.
When he pulled back, the kitchen was… well, it was still messy. But it was cleaner. And the air was no longer filled with smoke, but with a quiet, shared warmth.
He wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as you both stared at the last of the counters.
"So," he murmured into your ear, his voice warm. "Tomorrow. My room. 10 AM. You, me, and a very simple cupcake recipe. I'll even pre-measure."
You laughed, leaning your head back against his. "Deal."
"Good." He pressed a kiss to your (now clean) cheek. "Happy early birthday to me."
I do hope this "Specialty Pasta" was prepared to your liking, patron. It is a sweet, warm dish, perfect for a special occasion.
The kitchen is always open for the next order.
— Manager Seru
