yumenoki

FINEEE you are looking this far into my post?

You only wanted to do something nice for the Paranormal Experiences & Investigation Club.

That was all.

The thought had come to you rather innocently: everyone had been busy lately, buried beneath investigations, reports, and whatever supernatural nonsense the club had decided to involve itself in this week. Surely bringing something homemade to the next meeting would be a nice gesture.

Cupcakes.

Cupcakes were nice.

There was only one small problem.

You couldn't bake.

But that, you decided, was hardly a problem.

People baked all the time. There were recipes for everything nowadays. You didn't need some mysterious culinary talent passed down through generations. All you needed was a recipe book, a trip to the market, and a little bit of common sense.

So you went to the bookstore.

You stood in front of the cookbook section for nearly twenty minutes before finally choosing one with a reassuringly colorful picture of perfectly frosted cupcakes on the cover.

If the cupcakes on the cover could look like that, surely yours could too.

Probably.

You bought the book, went to the market, gathered everything the recipe asked for, and returned home feeling almost absurdly confident.

You even arranged all the ingredients on the kitchen counter before starting.

Everything was there. You opened the recipe book and carefully went through the instructions one more time, checking each ingredient before finally getting started. The first few steps went smoothly enough that, for a while, you began to wonder if you'd been unnecessarily worried. Maybe baking wasn't going to be as difficult as you'd imagined.

That confidence lasted until somewhere around the fourth step.

A little too much flour ended up on the counter. An eggshell found its way into the bowl. At one point, you realized you'd been mixing the batter for far longer than the recipe instructed because you'd gotten distracted by your phone. None of the mistakes seemed particularly disastrous on their own, but when you finally looked down at the bowl, the batter had taken on a consistency that didn't seem quite right.

You reread the instructions, comparing the page with what was in front of you as though the answer might somehow reveal itself.

It didn't.

Still, there was no reason to panic. The recipe hadn't said anything about the batter looking pretty, and surely the oven would take care of the rest. You poured the mixture into the cupcake liners, trying to distribute it as evenly as you could, then carefully slid the tray inside.

You had bought all the right ingredients.

You had followed the instructions.

Surely, somehow, this would work.

When the timer finally rang, you pulled the tray out with considerably more confidence than you probably deserved.

Then you stared.

The cupcakes looked less like cupcakes and more like something that had been unearthed during an archaeological excavation. They were pale and slightly sunken, their centers still suspiciously wet despite the amount of time they'd spent in the oven. You picked one up and poked the middle with a toothpick, only for half the cupcake to cling to it when you pulled it back out.

"...Okay."

Maybe they just needed a little more time.

That had to be it.

You put the tray back into the oven and set the timer again, choosing to ignore the increasingly obvious fact that you had no idea what you were doing. Five minutes passed, then ten. By the time fifteen minutes had gone by, you were beginning to wonder if perhaps you'd finally managed to salvage them.

Then you smelled something burning.

You froze.

The smell grew stronger, drifting out from the kitchen until there was no longer any possibility of pretending it wasn't happening. With a quiet, horrified realization, you hurried back to the oven and pulled the door open.

Smoke immediately billowed out.

You coughed and waved it away, staring helplessly at the cupcakes inside. Somehow, against all reasonable expectations, you had managed to create something that was both undercooked and burnt at the same time.

You weren't sure how that was even possible.

But there it was.

Your greatest culinary achievement.

The kitchen looked like a flour bomb had gone off. There was batter on the counter, flour on the floor, a suspicious smear of butter near the sink, and whatever was happening inside the oven was probably best left between you and God.

You looked down at your flour-covered hands, then at the cupcakes sitting miserably on the counter, before finally glancing back at the recipe book that had promised you something far more impressive than whatever you'd managed to create.

You could give up. There was still time to buy something from the store and pretend you'd never planned on baking anything in the first place. No one had to know.

Or you could ask someone who actually knew what they were doing.

Unfortunately, the only person who came to mind was Silas.

Silas, the handsome baker—

You immediately stopped yourself.

The guy who worked at the pastry shop, you corrected. That was all. You simply happened to know someone who worked with pastries and therefore, by sheer coincidence, was probably the most qualified person you could ask.

That was perfectly reasonable.

You hurried back to your bedroom and sat down in front of your computer, leaving the kitchen to its fate for the moment. Once the chatroom loaded, you found Wolfsbane among the usernames and opened the private chat.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

You could probably figure this out yourself.

Probably.

You stared at the empty message box for another few seconds before finally sighing and typing.

[username]: hey silas

Wolfsbane: Hello.

[username]: hypothetically speaking, if someone tried to bake cupcakes and somehow managed to burn them while leaving the inside uncooked

A moment passed.

Wolfsbane: How?

[username]: i don't know

Wolfsbane: I think I know who you're talking about.

[username]: don't laugh

Wolfsbane: I'm not.

[username]: you're definitely laughing

Wolfsbane: A little.

You sighed, resting your forehead against the desk.

[username]: can you help me?

The typing indicator appeared almost immediately.

Wolfsbane: Of course.

[username]: really?

Wolfsbane: Come by the shop tomorrow. I'll teach you properly.

You stared at the screen.

That was... surprisingly easy.

[username]: okay

Wolfsbane: And don't put them back in the oven.

You looked toward the kitchen.

Too late.

[username]: no promises.

———

The next afternoon, you found yourself standing outside the pastry shop with a paper bag full of ingredients hanging from your wrist. You had briefly considered leaving them at home. Silas worked here, after all; surely the shop had everything you needed.

But that didn't feel right.

It was one thing to ask him to teach you. It was another to show up and expect him to provide everything after you'd already managed to waste half of your own ingredients. So you brought whatever you still had, even if the bag felt slightly heavier than it should have.

When you stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the shop immediately surrounded you. The scent of freshly baked bread and sugar hung pleasantly in the air, and somewhere behind the counter, you could hear the faint clatter of dishes being put away.

Silas looked up when he heard the bell above the door.

His attention settled on you first, then dropped to the bag in your hand.

"What's that?"

You lifted it slightly. "Ingredients. I brought whatever I had left."

Something faintly amused crossed his expression as he looked at the bag again. "I thought I'd use mine."

"I thought about it."

"Ah."

The quiet amusement in his voice made you look away. You followed him toward the back of the shop as he dried his hands on a towel, trying not to feel quite so guilty about having shown up with a grocery bag like an apology.

"You didn't have to bring anything," he said.

"I know. I just didn't think it'd be nice to use the shop's ingredients after I already ruined my own."

Silas glanced over his shoulder at you. "You're very concerned about manners for someone who nearly set their cupcakes on fire."

You gave him an unimpressed look.

"Are you going to bring that up every time you see me?"

"Probably."

You sighed, and the sound of his quiet laugh followed as he turned back toward the kitchen.

"I regret asking you for help."

"No, you don't."

You opened your mouth to argue, only to stop when you realized you had nothing to say.

Unfortunately, he was right.

You didn't regret it.

Not even a little.

The kitchen at the back of the shop was considerably cleaner than yours had been the day before. Everything had its place, the counters were spotless, and there was something almost unfair about watching Silas move around the space so naturally.

Silas looked over the ingredients you'd brought, checking each one before setting them out across the counter. There was something almost methodical about the way he worked, arranging everything within reach before finally picking up the recipe book you'd brought with you.

"All right. We'll start again."

You looked at him. "Again?"

He glanced at you, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "You didn't expect me to let you leave here still believing you can bake, did you?"

"That sounds like an insult."

"It's an observation."

Before you could come up with a response, he reached for the mixing bowl and set it in front of you. With a small gesture, he indicated the space beside him.

"Come here."

You stepped closer, close enough to see the faint traces of flour still clinging to his sleeves from whatever he'd been working on before you arrived. He handed you the whisk and began explaining the next step, his voice calm as he went over the parts you'd apparently managed to misunderstand yesterday.

This time, you were determined to get it right.

Silas placed the bowl in front of you and began explaining what you had done wrong the first time. This time, you listened carefully, watching the way he measured everything before adding it to the bowl.

"Don't rush this part." Silas watched as you began mixing, his attention fixed on the batter. "You want it smooth, but you don't want to overwork it."

You nodded and followed his instructions, moving the whisk through the mixture as evenly as you could.

"Like this?"

"Slower."

You adjusted your hand.

"Not that slow."

You frowned at the bowl. "You're terrible at explaining."

"And you're terrible at following instructions."

"That's not true."

"Yesterday says otherwise."

You muttered something under your breath, but he only seemed more amused as you continued stirring. After a while, the rhythm became easier, the batter gradually smoothing beneath the whisk.

Then your wrist began to ache.

You shifted your grip, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the awkward angle only made the spoon drag more heavily through the mixture. Before you could figure it out yourself, Silas stepped closer.

"Here."

His hand settled over yours.

You stopped moving.

For a moment, Silas seemed entirely unaware of your sudden stillness. His attention remained on the bowl as his fingers gently adjusted your grip, guiding your wrist into a more natural position. The movement was simple, practical—nothing more than someone correcting the way you held a spoon.

And yet, you became painfully aware of how close he was.

His hand was warm against yours, his fingers resting lightly over the back of your hand as he guided the whisk through the batter. You could feel the quiet movement of his wrist, the faint brush of his arm against yours whenever he leaned in to correct the motion.

"You're putting too much pressure into it," he murmured.

"Let the whisk do the work."

You nodded.

You weren't entirely sure you'd heard him.

Your attention had become far too occupied with the warmth of his hand and the fact that, despite how unnecessary it probably was, neither of you had moved away yet.

There was nothing particularly intimate about it. He was teaching you how to mix cupcake batter. That was all. His hand was simply there to guide yours, his fingers resting loosely against the back of your hand as he demonstrated the motion.

Still, you became strangely conscious of every little movement—the slow turn of the whisk beneath your hand, the occasional brush of his knuckles against yours, even the faint scent of sugar and vanilla clinging to his sleeves.

"See?" His voice pulled you back. "You're doing it properly now."

You glanced down at your hands before looking up at him. "Right."

It seemed to be only then that Silas realized he was still holding your hand. His fingers loosened, and he drew his hand away with a quiet, almost imperceptible hesitation.

"Sorry."

"It's fine."

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Silas stepped back and reached for the next ingredient, as though returning to the task at hand would make the brief awkwardness disappear.

"Add that."

You did.

A little too quickly.

Some of the flour escaped the bowl and scattered across the counter.

Silas stared at it.

You stared at it too.

"...That wasn't me."

His gaze shifted toward you.

"You were holding it."

You sighed. "Okay. It was me."

A quiet laugh escaped him, and despite yourself, you smiled too.

After that, the rest went more smoothly.

Mostly.

There were still a few mistakes along the way. You spilled some of the milk, nearly dropped the whisk twice, and somehow managed to dust the front of your shirt with flour despite your best efforts to keep yourself clean. By now, Silas seemed to have accepted that helping you bake also meant keeping an eye on everything you were doing.

When he noticed the flour on your shirt, you brushed at it, only managing to smear it further.

"You're making it worse."

You glanced down at yourself. "I am?"

He gave a small nod, then looked back at your face. "You have some on your cheek, too."

You instinctively raised your hand, but before you could find the spot, Silas reached over and brushed it away with his thumb.

You went still.

The touch lasted barely a moment, yet somehow you became aware of it all the same—the warmth of his skin against your cheek, the brief pause in his movement, and the way his gaze remained on you before he seemed to remember himself.

His hand fell back to his side.

"Flour," he said, almost unnecessarily.

"I figured."

The corner of his mouth lifted, though his attention eventually returned to the bowl between you.

"You're getting better."

You looked at the mixture, then back at him. "At baking?"

A faint smile lingered on his face.

"Among other things."

You weren't entirely sure what he meant by that.

For once, you decided not to ask.

—

Once the batter was finally ready, Silas showed you how much to put into each liner, making sure you didn't repeat yesterday's mistake of filling some more than others. You were much more careful this time, and when the last one was finally filled, you stepped back to admire your work.

They actually looked like cupcakes.

You glanced at Silas, almost expecting him to find something wrong with them.

Instead, he gave a small nod of approval.

"Not bad."

You smiled. "That's the nicest thing you've said to me all day."

"I've said plenty of nice things."

"You've mostly insulted my baking."

"Constructive criticism."

You laughed and carried the tray toward the oven. Silas opened the door for you, and together you carefully slid the cupcakes inside before setting the timer.

And then there was nothing left to do but wait.

You leaned back against the counter while Silas cleaned the few utensils you'd used. The shop had become quieter now, the rush of the afternoon having settled into a gentle hum. Somewhere beyond the kitchen, you could hear the occasional sound of dishes and the muffled voices of customers.

"You know," Silas said as he wiped the counter, "you really didn't have to go through all this trouble."

You looked at him. "I wanted to."

"For the club?"

You nodded.

"Everyone's been working hard. I thought it'd be nice to bring something."

Silas was quiet for a moment before setting the cloth aside.

"That's thoughtful."

You smiled a little. "Even if I nearly killed the cupcakes?"

"Especially then."

You laughed.

Silas leaned against the counter beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touched.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

You found yourself watching the oven instead, following the slow rise of the cupcakes through the glass. The warmth from it filled the small kitchen, and for some reason, standing there beside him felt strangely comfortable.

"Silas?"

"Hm?"

You glanced toward the oven, watching the cupcakes slowly rise behind the glass. "Do you think they'll actually taste good?"

Silas followed your gaze before looking back at you, the faintest hint of amusement settling in his expression.

"I think they'll be fine."

You gave him a doubtful look. "That's not very convincing."

His smile deepened, though he didn't seem particularly bothered by your skepticism. "You'll have to wait and see."

You turned toward him, already preparing another complaint, but whatever you'd meant to say faded before it reached your lips.

He was looking at you.

Not at the cupcakes or the counter or anything else around the kitchen. At you.

There was something quieter in his expression now, the teasing warmth from earlier softened into something you couldn't quite place. You became suddenly aware of how close you'd been standing, how neither of you had bothered to move away.

The kitchen seemed strangely quiet.

Then his gaze dropped.

Only for a moment.

It lingered on your lips before slowly returning to your eyes.

Your breath caught.

"Maybe," he said, his voice quieter than before, "you'll surprise yourself."

You swallowed, suddenly far too conscious of what to do with your hands.

For once, you had no clever reply.

Then— Ding!

The oven timer rang.

The sharp chime broke through the quiet kitchen, and you startled so badly that you nearly stepped backward into the counter. Silas seemed to recover a little quicker, though you caught the briefest flicker of surprise across his face before he turned toward the oven.

You lowered your gaze, suddenly finding the floor much more interesting than it had been a moment ago.

Silas reached for the oven mitts, and the warmth that escaped when he opened the door soon filled the kitchen with the sweet smell of freshly baked cake. You looked up despite yourself.

The cupcakes had risen beautifully.

No burnt edges. No suspiciously wet centers. No signs of the culinary disaster you'd produced the day before.

They were, somehow, actual cupcakes.

You stared at them for a moment, almost afraid that looking away would somehow ruin them.

"They look good," you murmured.

Silas glanced at you before looking back at the tray. A small smile appeared on his face.

"They do."

You turned toward him, your earlier embarrassment slowly giving way to genuine excitement.

"I actually did it."

"You did."

There was something strangely satisfying about hearing him say it. After yesterday's disaster, after the flour-covered kitchen and the smoke and your desperate decision to ask him for help, you'd somehow managed to make something edible.

Maybe even good.

Silas carefully set the tray aside to cool, and you stayed beside him, watching the cupcakes settle.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

You found yourself smiling.

Maybe baking wasn't so bad after all.