𐂐⋆.˚ unfortunate change
Joshua cooks for you all the time. You wish to repay the favour.
⋮ ⌗ joshua hong x gn!reader, established relationship, fluff, domestic fluff, slight hurt/comfort bc reader cant cook
⋮ ⌗ been struggling to continue the minghao series because my meds have fucked up my emotions LMFAO so i just wanted to pump out a lil piece to try and wean my way back into writing lovey dovey stuff lol… this was definitely not inspired by the time i tried to make a crepe cake
⋮ ⌗ 2.1k words
Joshua always cooks for you.
That’s the way it’s always been. That’s the way it always would be, if Joshua had his way.
He told you, on your second date, that he loves to cook for the people he cares about. Inevitably, you ended up becoming one of those very people.
Therefore, more often than not, you spend your evenings with him in your kitchen, seated upon your tall bar stool and watching as he mixes all sorts of spices and seasonings you never would’ve thought to combine.
The wait is always worth it, everything about him is worth it; the way he patiently waits as you take the first bite of whatever new recipe he’s experimenting with, a hesitant glimmer in his eyes. He wouldn’t say it, but he’s often scared you won’t like it.
You always do. You always do.
He remembers what you like. He remembers what you don’t. And even if the chicken was a tad too salty, the rice slightly overcooked, the vegetables too plain, every meal is always perfect because he makes them for you.
One night, while heating up the leftovers from the last night he made you dinner, you realised just how much he has treated and pampered you since the two of you became official.
And what did you give in return, even? Some kisses and praise?
He’s the corny—albeit, dreamily romantic—type to tell you ‘your smile is payment enough’, but you know better! You’ll do better.
As you took the smoked beef dish out of the microwave, steam rushed over your face like some metaphoric symbol of becoming the perfectly generous partner you were about to be. Like he is to you.
You were going to repay him. With the best crepe cake he’s ever had, and ever will have.
You seen a recipe online, and he's been talking about wanting to try one. The thing is... you’ve never really made anything from scratch before.
Well, you have! With family—but you were always left to linger around the kitchen, maybe measuring a thing or two before being told to sit down. “We don’t trust you,” they said.
…God, you accidentally reheat butter too long and it bursts into flames in the microwave one time. An honest mistake, really! You were banned from the kitchen ever since. Talk about holding a grudge.
(Well, there was also that time you broke the kitchen ban and tried to make a red velvet cake. The night ended on your hands and knees, scraping chocolatey lumps off the oven walls. That was not your fault—you could’ve sworn on your life that the recipe said 2 tablespoons...)
But so what if you’ve developed a slightly worrying baking history? People change. You’re sure that your love for Joshua will power you through this journey.
You think. But what could go wrong?
✦•······················•✦•······················•✦
You've been whisking the batter for 10 minutes, and it's still lumpy.
You're not too knowledgable about the expected consistency of crepe batter, but this is most definitely not it. You look back to the recipe on your flour-covered phone screen which explicitly reads 'mix until well combined and smooth'.
The batter in front of you is basically off-white, much lighter than the picture in the recipe, and not nearly half as smooth. You made a conscious effort not to repeat your butter-related mistakes of eld, and decided to toss in the butter unmelted. In your defence, it seemed smooth enough.
Maybe you should've melted the butter. Could you still melt the butter? Would it melt in the pan? You could just add more butter. But you've added so much already...
The clock beside your wall cabinet reads 4:55pm. Shit, wasn't Joshua supposed to meet you at 5:30?
Shit, you haven't even made the icing yet!
Swallowing your steadily rising panic, you sigh as you break the unspoken anti-butter-melting promise you made to yourself and slice a portion from the stick. You toss it into a bowl, then into the microwave, checking every 20 seconds for any signs of sparking into flames. A smart move, clearly, as the butter melts without any problem.
You're a goddamn chef. Your kitchen curse is finally over!
With the confidence of Gordon Ramsey himself, you boldly pour the whole bowl into the batter and mix. The batter finally softens, becoming almost... watery, and a dark yellow colour more akin to liquid sulfur than cake batter.
Whatever. It's better than before.
Looking over to your pan on the stove, you gasp. The whole butter fiasco took longer to resolve than you thought it would, and the pans been preheating at a high heat for almost 15 minutes now, with the oil you brushed over it basically non-existant.
You hover a hand over the pan, and the air itself hurts. You wince, grabbing half a spoonful of the rest of the butter and frenetically flicking the spoon until gravity does its job. The butter hits the pan with a harsh sizzle, melting immediately, and you jump back when the hot oil sprays onto your finger.
You look back to the clock: ten past five.
It's game time.
You pick up the mixing bowl with one hand, wincing at the weight, and hold your spatula in the other. You tilt it over the pan, pausing unsurely before the batter can spill out.
I've got this, you think. This is for Joshua. For every delicious meal he cooked for you. For every night not spent slurping shin ramyun alone.
You love him. So much. He knows this, but you want to scream it from the rooftops until all 8 billion people in this world know.
You can't do that, obviously, you'll get arrested for being a public nuisance. So you'll settle for baking your love into a cute little crepe cake.
Tilting the bowl, you automatically make a grave mistake. You misjudge the weight, batter flowing out faster than you expected, splashing in and around the pan.
"Shit—"
The batter immediately starts steaming and bubbling, with some splashes joining the puddle forming around the base of your poor pan. In a panic, you flick your eyes to the stove knobs and your heart sinks. Like an idiot, you forgot to turn down the heat.
You turn it down to a zero and push the pan to the side, but the damage is done; the pan has become a max-bronze tanning bed for the crepe, with the edges crisping into a shiny black ash. The smell of hot butter, usually indicative of a delicious dessert being baked, hits your nose oppressively. The gentle steam of the crepe has transformed into something more alarming, a grey smoke starting to make its way around your counters.
Your phone, rested on the counter, lights up with the most stomach-dropping message you could possibly receive in this situation.
I'm outside 💙 Got let out a little early :)
...
You’re in hell. You’re actually in hell. This is a demonic punishment.
"No, no, no, no, fuck..." you curse out loud, with no-one to listen.
Your kitchen feels overwhelmingly warmer every second, growing thick with the miasma of burning eggs and failure. With a floury hand, you crank open a window, coughing on the smoke spreading throughout your apartment like a virus. It's futile. The fire alarm erupts.
You jump back, spatula tossing itself out of your hands and splattering crepe batter all over your hardwood floor. You nearly slip on the mixture as you stumble around your kitchen, yanking open as many windows as you can reach. Grabbing a towel off the oven handle, you flap it around wildy, eyes squinting from the sting of the smoke.
The alarm doesn't give up. You fan harder and harder, but it keeps shrieking, violent and relentless.
Your neighbours are gonna kill you. Only if this crepe smoke doesn't eliminate you first. You kind of wish it would, at this point. It would save you some embarassment.
Tears threaten to form at the corners of your eyes, and it's unclear whether it's still from the smoke or the sheer humiliation of it all. At this point, you're certain that the universe itself is watching your demise, giggling with a bucket of popcorn and said 'hey, you know what would make this better?'
Because to top it all off, the icing on the fucking crepe cake is the sound of the door opening.
"What—"
You don't even see him at first. The thick smoke rushes out of the open door like a guest who overstayed its welcome. Like a guardian angel (one you really don't want to see right now) Joshua rushes in, wafting the air with his scarf as he sets his eyes on you.
"A-Are you okay? What happened?" He exclaims over the alarm, voice trembling with concern.
You're sure you look pathetic. You definitely feel like it right now; standing in the middle of your smoke-riddled kitchen, flour encompassing every centimetre of skin, hair tousled, and eyes wide with guilt.
"I messed up..."
Upon realising that—despite your wishes—you are very much alive and physically unharmed, he drags a stool across the crepe mix-riddled floor and reaches up to the fire alarm on the ceiling, disabling it with a single button press. Frozen, you just watch.
He takes a deep breath, he stays stood on the stool as his eyes drift over to yours. It's silent in your apartment now, almost devastatingly so, and the smoke has ushered its way out through the windows, leaving nothing but you and Joshua.
He glances behind you at the ingredients crowding the counters, a mixing bowl of beige slim, a pan steaming with an unidentifiable brown mass stuck to its centre.
To your embarassment, his lips curl into a smile. It's gentle, unbearably tender, but you're too far gone to feel anything but stress, shock, and mortification right now.
"Darling... what happened?" His voice is too sweet.
"I..." your voice, on the other hand, threatens to crack, "I tried to bake you something..."
His eyebrows curve upwards, and he steps off the stool, face melting into a tender, almost unbelieving smile. "You tried to bake for me?"
"Tried," you frown, miserable, "I messed up."
He coos, reaching forward in a flash to envelop you in his arms. Without needing to think twice, you naturally soften into his touch, eyes welling up as he pats your back. You feel like a child who spilled their glass of milk.
"You... you always cook for me..." you whisper, throat tight, "I thought that... maybe I could do the same for you..." He tugs you tighter with an 'aw', kissing the top of your head.
"My darling..." he drags out the vowels, something in between softly scolding and doting on you, "You know I don't expect anything, yeah?"
"I want to give you something back," you insist, whimpering in frustration, "I wanted to treat you, for you to come home to a nice treat like how you always do for me. Instead you see... this."
Joshua wordlessly caresses your cheek, thumb brushing away the flour there. His touch is intimate, loving, and not at all what you feel like you deserve. He grants you space to tearfully ramble on.
"You're so good to me, all the time, and I can't even do this one simple thing for you. I'm so sorry, Shua... you deserve so much and I want to give you everything. But I..."
You can't voice the insecurities that are rising in your head, a tear just drops down your face and soaks into his coat. He doesn't say anything, for a second. He just continues to affectionately rub your back.
"Please don't say those things. Don't cry, okay?" he nods, "You'll make me cry, we can't both be crying if we're going to fix this."
"We?" you repeat, "No, this is my mess. And my apartment."
He pulls back, cupping your face into his hands, "And you are my partner. Your 'messes' are mine too."
You immediately give in, bumping your head into his chest, muffling an 'okay' from within his coat. You reaches for your hand, letting it lace together with yours as he slowly lifts your knuckles to his lips.
"Just put the ingredients away, and I'll do the rest, okay? We can go to a cafe and get whatever it is you were making."
He's sickeningly sweet.
With a reluctant smile, you look up to his gentle smile and refuse to resist pressing a kiss to his soft lips. "...I love you so, so, so much. I'm really, really sorry."
"Don't be. I love you too."
do not copy / translate / repost without permission ! all works are written by a human ! dividers by @whor3ing