Archive of Our Own

Service isn’t until five thirty in the afternoon. Usually, Minho will slide in through the back door of the kitchen just before nine in the morning.

On most days, he is the first one there. His kitchen, his space; the silence of the first few moments of the day, before Changbin storms in from the office or from the back door, or Felix and Jisung come in hand in hand to help him get the day started. They usually try to have most of the kitchen staff in by nine thirty, though it’s not like Minho keeps tabs on everyone’s hours, anyway. They work enough of them as is.

Those quiet, precious solitary moments act as a respite from the outside hustle, often, but also like a reset from the night before. He’ll take a moment to sit in silence by the head of the island where he spends most of his evenings, reliving the day before’s service, or simply taking in the space as it stands absolutely still—more often than not for the only moment of the day.

On others, he’ll find Felix, hands covered in flour or scribbling in his pink notebook, as he tries new recipes or tweaks a ganache he isn’t quite satisfied with. He’s the only one, so far—besides Minho—who tends to creep into the kitchen before his time, just for the sake of being here; for trying, for learning, for the sake of the food and his love for it.

Today is one of those mornings.

The harsh lights of the kitchen catch on Felix’s light blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail, his figure bent down as he delicately deposits bright, yellow-red edible petals on a plate—a fluffy genoise, layered with apple confit, a generous swirl of lemon cream, and garnished with mango slices. Felix’s newest creation, his pride—the restaurant’s latest dessert sensation.

Felix, in turn; Minho’s pride, hard at work in his kitchen.

“You’re here early,” he calls out to him as he makes his way inside, and watches as Felix’s eyes flicker up to him, his features twisting in a blinding smile.

“Hey, Minho,” he says, voice still quiet in the morning, lowering his eyes back on his creation, hands confident as they fix up the plate. “Just wanted to try some things.”

“Still working on the confit?” Minho asks, walking closer to Felix’s station, tugging his face mask down to his chin.

Next to him, Felix shakes his head. “The cream,” he hums, straightening himself, still staring at the dessert. He tilts his head, narrows his eyes. He turns to Minho after a moment. “Wanna try?”

Minho knows it’ll be good. Anything Felix touches is good. His talent comes from years of refined work, yes—but there is something about the way he builds his pieces that speaks more of innate talent than anything else.

He nods. “Got a spoon for me?”

“‘Course. Let me get you a perfect bite.”

A generous scoop of cream. Just the right amount of confit, the genoise completing the bite. Felix adds a piece of mango on top with his fingers. Minho pretends he doesn’t notice.

He takes the spoon from Felix’s extended hand, brings it to his mouth. Creamy, fresh, wonderfully balanced. Something catches at his tongue—something floral, climbing up his nose. That’s new. “Orange blossom?”

“Yeah,” Felix smiles, bites the corner of his lip. “It kinda works, right? What do you think?”

“It’s lovely,” Minho answers, honest, licking at the spoon before he sets it down. “I like it. You should try it tonight.”

Relief floods Felix’s features, who huffs a quiet laugh as he shakes his head. “Thanks, but. It’s not ready yet, hyung.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s good. That’s what matters,” Minho raises an eyebrow, squeezing Felix’s shoulder as he makes to cross the kitchen. “Come on, now. Care to help me with deliveries?”

Felix’s chuckle is a light, warming sound. “Sure, just give me a sec, I’ll clean up in here real quick.”

“Cool. Have you seen Changbin?”

Felix nods, his smile turning teasing. “He’s in the office. I can go bring him this,” he lifts the plate before him, Minho’s bite cleanly taken off the cake, “and tell him he’s on delivery duty?”

“Yes you will,” Minho snorts. “I’ll drop my stuff and be right back out.”

“Catch you in five, hyung!”

Just before nine. The day starts. Minho’s kitchen comes to life.

⊹₊⟡⋆

Becoming chef de cuisine has never been Minho’s goal. He just wanted to cook.

He loved food—loves it, still; and while the pressure of service wears him down, the rush of his nights becoming harder to keep up with as he grows older, it is his passion for food that kept him going as a student in culinary school, and later as an cook in the variety of kitchens he’s made himself a name in with time.

The satisfaction of a good dish. The exquisite feeling of the perfect mix of flavour, of texture, of smell. The moment it creates—the experience it brings. Inviting himself, through his food, in someone else’s day, in a family’s memory, a turning point in one’s life, or even just a mundane moment in time spent around a decent meal.

And that’s just the joy of service—a joy so precious in a slew of hours often so fucking intense and draining—because beyond that, there’s also the prep. Minho loves it. What comes before. The care they put into it, making sure everything runs smoothly later on, when the show kicks off.

The kitchen is family—or should be, anyway. Not in the toxic, suffocating way it was when he staged in Napa, fake and tense and uncomfortable—but rather the way it is now, in this kitchen, his kitchen, with his closest friends working seamlessly around him, with him. The joy of cooking, with them.

Minho never meant to become chef de cuisine, but somehow, it just turned out that way—his family, coming together, and him at the centre of it.

“Hey, Minho.”

Chan’s voice always sounds a little higher, a little chipper in the morning, even when he keeps it levelled and quiet around Minho. He doesn’t know when he started noticing that as the day goes by, Chan’s voice tends to wear in pitch, clear when he mans the island, then a low, tired hum once the night comes to a close. A slow, tantalizing descending slope. Then the next day comes, and Minho anticipates his bright, morning tone, all over again. Rinse, repeat.

Chan has been his sous-chef for a little under half a year now. Four months. Minho has been counting.

He’s the newest addition to the team—trained in Australia, worked there a decent amount of time, before moving to Seoul for a year and finally making his way across an ocean to Minho’s doorstep.

Charming smile, cute dimples, tremendously talented. A fantastic leader in the kitchen and outside, even though this restaurant is, on paper, Minho’s playground. He had feared, at first, that they would step on each other’s feet, clash on how to run things, what with their shared steadfast attitude and tendency to naturally take charge, though Chan ultimately would have had to fold to Minho’s guidelines—but none of that happened.

Working with Chan turned out to be—and remains—wonderfully seamless. It’s almost off-putting, how well they bounce off each other. Jisung says it feels like watching the happy marriage his parents never had finally unfold before his eyes; Hyunjin says it’s hot, burning with sexual tension, whatever it is that they have.

To Minho, it’s simply easy.

He will lead and Chan will follow and execute, direct the rest of the team to fall into Minho’s vision exactly the way he’d pictured it himself. When he steps back, Chan will wear the burden of service like second skin, running the show like he was born to do so, calling out directions with a loud, firm voice that never fails to retain its kindness; something even Minho struggles to do, sometimes. It’s a dance they’ve perfected in a matter of barely a few weeks, which is unheard of, even in Minho’s modest experience.

It’s a treat, a blessing, to be able to count on someone like this in the haze of work. Minho tried to do it all by himself—an impossible task. He’d hired Jisung to be his sous a while before the younger caved after a year, the pressure too much on his shoulders—something another owner chef could have had him fired for, but not Minho. Not when Jisung was his oldest friend, not when he knew that just like him, Jisung only ever wanted to cook. And he was good at it—punishing him for crumbling under the weight of running a kitchen, something he never truly envisioned for himself, would’ve been cruel of Minho.

And so came in Chan. A rock to lean on and blindly trust, nearly just as much as the rest of the team although they haven’t known each other for as long. The perfect fit, a wonderful push to Minho’s pull.

It’s easy, with him.

“Hey,” Minho replies, just as quiet, as Chan comes to stand next to him. He’s still in his outside clothes, thick black bomber jacket on his shoulders, and Minho would say something about changing before standing so close to him while he preps but he knows Chan to be careful. Probably more than he is himself. “Slept okay?”

“Hm, yeah,” Chan hums, peering at the stock simmering on one of their bigger stoves. “A few hours.”

“Just a few hours?” Minho knows Chan has insomnia. He still worries, though. He can’t help it.

“I stayed up on my phone for too long,” he answers, sheepish. His eyes crinkle with it, and something inside Minho unfurls with warmth. “You know how it is.”

“What are you, a teenager?” he huffs, but it’s teasing, and he knows Chan picks up on it when he startles a laugh. “Go get changed. I need you to help Changbin store the remaining deliveries left out back, please.”

“Yes, chef,” Chan replies, and there’s a lilting edge to it—the title is serious, they use it constantly in the kitchen and give it the weight it deserves, but this early in the day, it feels more like a gentle shove, a funny secret, a teasing remark. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

“Thank you, chef.”

Chan hums, as he goes out back to get ready for the day. A high-pitched thing, soft around the edges. Minho’s favourite song.

⊹₊⟡⋆

Produce deliveries come in the morning. Meats come through until noon. Fresh fish is usually around one, most of the time on the dot. Minho used to assign quite literally anyone available to handle it the moment they’d come in. Chan, on the other hand, has a bit of a system. Minho lets him do his thing.

Everyone starts setting up their station around two in the afternoon. Felix tends to start a little earlier just to get his more complex doughs ready, letting them rest if need be. That’s usually when the kitchen is, all at once, the most animated and the quietest in the day—Jisung prepping most of the cold dishes, Seungmin working on the broths, Minho taking care of the components for the bowls and ramen dishes, Hyunjin handling most of the meat and fish prep. Chan will usually help him—he spent quite an amount of time doing similar work in Australia—but will also make sure none of them miss anything, will gladly lend his help if anyone needs it.

The kitchen is busy, then, but not like it is during service rush; there’s peace in the long lull of the hours, in the practiced, repetitive motions of their hands. Easy banter fills the air and it’s Minho’s favourite part of the day.

More often than not, Minho will cook for them, too. Today’s is quite simple; chicken noodle soup, made using ingredients already in the fridge, trying to finish off surplus as much as possible. Heartwarming, the way he likes it. There’s also a hint of truffle in there, just because.

“God, Minho I could kiss you,” Hyunjin says, when he grabs his bowl from Minho’s hands. “I needed this, today.”

“Did you get dumped again?” Jisung quips from where he sits, cheeks bulging with the food.

“Yes, he did. You didn’t hear him whine about it for like an hour in the kitchen, dude?” Seungmin drawls, pulling himself a chair. Next to him, at the table, Felix giggles quietly.

Hyunjin rolls his eyes as settles down next to Jisung. His eyes, though, watch Changbin as he comes out from the back, iPad in hand. “I didn’t get dumped, I dumped him,” he rectifies, eyes sharp.

“So why’re you upset?” Jisung frowns.

“I’m not upset. Just, I don’t know. Bothered.” He sighs, blows on his broth before he speaks again. His eyes don’t stray, Minho notices.

Changbin, however, doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge Hyunjin’s antics, doesn’t react. He just hums noncommittally, and then clears his throat, his head still angled towards his screen. “Alright, so. Ready for rundown?”

The staff acquiesces, most of them eating on a few tables in the dining room. Hyunjin sighs again, finally looks back down at his family meal.

Chan stands on the far wall, arms crossed over his broad chest. Minho isn’t staring.

He takes a seat close to that same wall, starts eating.

“Alright,” Changbin starts. “So. We’ve got quite a busy night coming up—”

“When has it ever not been busy,” Seungmin mutters quietly in his soup. Felix shushes him.

“—with about fifty covers to start, excluding walk-ins, but we’re pretty booked today, so I doubt we’ll get any. There’s a birthday at a table of four at six thirty—” he looks up then, for the first time since walking in, staring straight at Felix who winks with a corner smile, “and an anniversary at seven.” He glances back down with a smile of his own to his tablet, pouts and hums as he scrolls. “Yeah, so, mostly tables of two, a few tables of four, and one table of six at seven thirty. Eighteen tables, ten seats at the bar, fifty covers. All good?”

“Sounds good to me,” Chan says from the wall. “Anything you want to add, Minho?”

It should be Minho’s question to ask. But he accepts it graciously, because he doesn’t mind that Chan wears his role as second head of the kitchen so naturally—he loves it. It’s easy. “Jinnie, you can be generous with the chicken for the dakgangjeong today. We’ve still got surplus we need to clear. And Jisungie,” he twists in his seat, makes sure to catch his eye, “it’ll be busy, so I’ll give you a hand with garde-manger today, if you need me to, yeah?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure, hyung. Thanks.” Jisung blinks, smiles.

Minho nods. “Good. Big night, so stay focused, everyone.” He turns to stand, checks his phone. “Thirty minutes to showtime, come on. Let’s get this party started, yeah?”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself!” Chan pulls himself from the wall, claps his hand once as he marches back to the kitchen. A smile blooms on his face, dimples digging deep into his cheeks. Minho stares, cannot help the smile that stretches on his own face. “Showtime, baby!”

Service starts at five thirty. Slow, at first, as appetizers come in, a few drink orders for Sooyoung and Jihyo at the bar. And then, it picks up fast, a whirlwind of orders as mains start coming in. Minho’s second favourite part of the day.

Chan, at the head of the island, keeps his eyes flitting between his orders, neatly placed in front of him, and the expanse of the kitchen before him, surveilling everyone’s move with the precision of a hawk.

“Alright, two army stews, one brisket bowl, one lamb platter, all day, please.” His voice remains loud despite the clank of dish plates and the sizzle of the pans.

“Yes, chef.” Jisung, from his post at the cold station; Seungmin, before the stove; Hyunjin, to Minho’s right. Three voices echoing as one.

“One seafood platter as well, please.”

“On it, chef,” Minho answers, hands already moving to grab what he needs.

“Thank you, chef,” Chan replies quietly, to Minho’s left. Like a secret, between them.

It passes in the blink of an eye, today. The orders barely stop, and the lull between two seatings barely lasts ten minutes—enough for Minho to rush to the bathroom, and nothing more—before it picks up again, almost even quicker than before.

Changbin makes himself scarce in the kitchen, today. Guests might be keeping him busy, but Minho suspects it has more to do with his own desire for showmanship in the dining room, and whatever cold front he’s putting up in front of Hyunjin.

It’s a little annoying—Hyunjin rarely lets anything affect him in his work, but it shows in his face, the frown of his eyebrows, the slight pout of his mouth, even though he remains as steadfast as always, efficient as ever. And Changbin, too, would never let it show—when he does swing by the kitchen at seven thirty, asking about Felix’s special birthday treat for the party of four at table 61, he’s all smiles and cheek, but Minho catches the way his eyes never glance up to meet Hyunjin’s.

“What kind of birthday celebration is it?” Chan asks, his own soft smile dancing on his lips.

“Four college girls, been friends since high school. It’s the only weekend they get to see each other this semester, ‘cause everyone’s studying out of state,” Changbin grins. “The birthday girl turns twenty-one, today.”

“Twenty-one, ooh,” Minho hums, hands steady as he keeps slicing the blanched lobster on his board. Garlic butter sauce goes on top, one he’s placed it at the centre of his dish. “That’s a big deal.”

“Of course,” Chan hums.

“One apple mango angel cake, chef.” Felix deposits the plate in front of Chan, about to rush back before Minho intercepts him with his voice.

“Did you use the orange blossom extract in the cream, Lix?”

Felix glances over his shoulder at him, and nods with a spark in his eye. “I did. I heard it’s not too bad, so I thought I’d give it a try, tonight.”

Minho only chuckles, turns back towards his dish, plates it efficiently before sliding it Chan’s way towards the pass. Chan takes over, grabs a few garnishes from Jisung’s station and places them delicately around the dish.

“Orange blossom, huh?” Minho hears him ask, tone inquisitive.

He looks at him, watches as he crosses out the cake and the lobster bowl from his cue of orders. “Yeah, in the cake’s lemon cream. Felix tweaked it a bit this morning. You should try it, hyung. I think you’d like it.”

“Hm. Sounds lovely.” His tone is low, calm. Chan’s eyes flit up to him, and that smile welcomes him again with a wink. Minho glances away, cheeks on fire. He hears Chan speak again but doesn’t dare looking back up. “You can send this, Changbin. Cake for 61 and the lobster for 52.”

“Sure, thanks chef!” Changbin quips, walking back with a steady hand and not once glance back at Hyunjin. It’s almost a feat in their book, Minho thinks.

The night goes smoothly, overall. Minho steps in at some point to call out incoming orders, as Chan goes to lend his hand to Hyunjin when a few heavy hitters from the grill menu start coming in. They end the service like this, with Minho at the head of the island, Chan taking over Minho’s station, with barely a few words exchanged between them. Wonderfully seamless.

Clean up is long. Annoying. Necessary. It’s often spent in relative quiet, as the exhaustion of the day weighs on everyone’s shoulders and silences most of their thoughts and words. Sometimes, Seungmin will hum under his breath, or Jisung, if he’s not too tired.

Today, the silence is nice, comfortable. Minho lets it wash over him as he mops the floors, the movement methodic and calming despite the effort. At some point, Hyunjin comes to take over, and Minho accepts gratefully, taking some time to do one last check in the fridges.

“Good work today, everyone,” Chan says at the end of the night, before everyone scurries to change and leave. It’s nearing midnight. His voice has taken a low, warm tone, closer to a hum than the clear, bright voice that welcomed them that morning.

Minho notices. Rinse, repeat.

“You did well, Chan,” he tells him, approaching him as they fold their chef whites and dump them in the laundry basket. “Try to get some sleep tonight, yeah?”

Chan huffs a smile, cheeks warm under Minho’s attention as he grabs his jacket. Minho simply watches, enraptured. “Thanks, man. Are you walking home?”

“Yeah. Coming with?”

“Hm.”

They’ve started doing this. At first, Minho would stay back, jot a few ideas for menu tweaks in the office, or look over overdue paperwork in the still quiet of the empty restaurant around him. But it only took about two weeks after Chan’s arrival for those habits to start changing—Chan would hang back in the kitchen, trying this one thing and that with a dish he’d learned from Minho during service, and Minho would still find him working on it by the time he’d go and grab his things to leave. They started sharing ideas. Cooking together. Or simply talking, or like this, now, walking home together. Turns out Chan had moved in barely a few blocks away from Minho’s place.

So they started doing this. They’ve been doing this, now, for the four months or so that Chan has made himself at home in Minho’s kitchen.

“Felix’s angel cake. The new lemon cream. Did you taste it?”

“Oh, yeah!” Chan smiles—he smiles so much, Minho observes—as the streetlights paint shadows on his face, digging deep into his dimples. “Felix made me a small one at the end of service. You’re right, it’s lovely. He’s so good.”

“I keep telling him that,” Minho sighs.

They reach Chan’s apartment first. It’s a dance they’ve perfected with time, too, this moment—Chan will slow his steps, linger, while Minho stands, steady on his feet. He doesn’t really want to leave just yet. He sees something in Chan’s eyes, despite the low lights of the street, that speak of the same desire.

Neither of them ever really do anything about it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Chan asks, nearly every time, like Minho wouldn’t show up to work for some reason at his own restaurant.

Minho snorts, nearly every time, because it never fails to sound ridiculous. “Of course you will, Chan. Get some rest.”

“You too, Minho.”

It goes like this: Chan waves, starts walking towards his lobby. Glances back, waves again, before he slips in and the door closes behind him. And Minho will stare, one, two seconds, before he turns himself and continues walking, steps slow and steady, towards his own home.

He thinks of Chan’s warmth, of the glow of his smile, of the light in his eyes, of his voice. Clear when he mans the island, then a low, tired hum once the night comes to a close. Past midnight, already, Minho anticipates his bright, morning tone, all over again.

Rinse, repeat.

⊹₊⟡⋆

Minho’s favourite item on the menu is the brisket bowl. He’s had the idea since culinary school. It’s far from his best dish—nor his most sophisticated—but it’s by far his favourite. There’s just something about it.

Tender meat, seared to perfection, layered on seasoned sesame rice and glazed with a honey soy sauce. Crisp, sautéed mixed greens and mushrooms take about a quarter of the plate. The dish is served with a dip made out of an emulsion of the rest of the honey soy mix and the meat jus, and a selection of side dishes: kimchi, pickled radish, bean sprouts.

Like most of the meat dishes, Hyunjin handles it now pretty much from start to finish. With time, Minho thinks Hyunjin has mastered it even better than he has, by force of habit, sure, but also because Hyunjin has made it his own, too.

Minho wouldn’t have it any other way.

“One lemon salad, one dakgangjeong, two premium ramens, all day,” Chan tones from the head of the island. As soon as the words leave his mouth, though, he moves back towards the hot station to check on the two briskets on the grill, and Minho steps around the island to take over the incoming orders. “Two brisket bowls, five out, chef.”

“Thank you, chef.” Minho answers him. Five minutes until the brisket bowls are done. He glances up, watches as Hyunjin preps the chicken for the dakgangjeong, and nods to himself. They shouldn’t be late on any orders, thankfully.

Friday nights are always a little hectic.

“Two brisket bowls, chef,” Chan sighs, sliding the plates towards the pass, and Minho crosses them off the paper slips before him. “By the way, Minho.”

“Hm?” He keeps his eyes on the plates, hands working quickly as they clean extra sauce on the sides and sprinkle sesame seeds and green onion on top.

“I’ve got a couple ideas, for the brisket bowl. I’d like to discuss them with you after service, if that’s okay?”

Oh. This isn’t new—this is far from new—but it’s the way Chan says it, slightly hesitant, like he’s treading carefully and doesn’t want to frazzle Minho with his words. His tone is soft, quiet, something Minho doesn’t hear during service that often. An exception, almost intimate.

“Hands!” Lily, one of Changbin’s waitresses, comes in swiftly to take the two meat plates. When she leaves, Minho chances a look at Chan, who is still by the pass, watching him expectantly. “Ideas for the brisket?”

“Nothing big, of course—just, you know. Something I’d like to try.”

Minho considers him, hears the buzz of incoming orders as they come in yet doesn’t tear his eyes away from Chan as he watches. “It’s our best selling item on the menu.”

“I know.”

“We haven’t changed a thing about it—or Hyunjin hasn’t, anyway, in well over a year.”

“I know.” Chan licks his lips, eyebrows raised. “I’ve—I’ve run it by him. He’s down to try—but I want to try it with you, first.”

Ah. Of course—Minho’s restaurant, Minho’s rules. It’s nice to see, though, that Chan doesn’t only consider his call for this kind of thing. Minho’s rules, and Chan knows them well. “Okay, then, yeah. Monday?”

The restaurant closes Mondays through Wednesdays, even though the kitchen never really sleeps during that time, anyway.

Another smile on Chan’s lips, this time like he’s won something. Minho goes back to his orders. “Sure, Monday works. Thank you, chef.”

“Of course.”

That night, he doesn’t walk back home with Chan. “Just want to check a few things before I go. You go ahead, hyung. Don’t wait up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Get some rest, yeah?”

“Okay, yeah. Don’t stay up too late, Minho.”

“Hm. I won’t.”

He does.

Minho runs by the brisket recipe all over again. First, the way he remembers it, muscle memory coming to execute it without him having to think much about it. He tastes it, lets himself savour it a little longer, jots down a few notes as he does so.

Then, he tries again—this time the way it’s written in the early pages of his notebook; not the one he’s writing into now, but an older one, pages frayed with time, fetched from the office, that holds the first version of the restaurant’s opening menu. Many dishes have vanished since, others have replaced them; but the brisket bowl remains a staple.

It’s a nice trip down his own memories. It tastes good, too; but Minho can’t help but think that Hyunjin’s modern, revisited version is better. He jots down a few more notes. Includes Hyunjin’s input as necessary, going forward.

And then, he tries one more time, the current recipe, but going slowly—as slow as he can manage without messing up the dish entirely—trying to pick apart each step, each moment where it could be improved. Takes notes as he goes, instead of waiting until the dish is done. His writing for this attempt takes an entire page of his notebook.

He can’t waste a fourth piece of meat on another attempt. When he glances up at the clock on the wall, it reads 01:24.

He has to be back here in eight hours. Chan’s voice echoes faintly at the back of his thoughts.

“Your place or mine?”

“Excuse me?” Minho blinks.

Chan raises his eyebrows, blinks back. It’s Sunday evening—or Monday morning, technically, it’s past midnight after all—and they’re doing their little staring dance in front of Chan’s door, pretending they don’t mind parting for the night. Like they’d be doing anything else, anyway.

“I mean—uh, tomorrow. My notes, for the brisket. I mean, we could work it out at the restaurant, but I thought it’d be nice to, I don’t know. Invite you over?” Chan says, hand scratching at the back of his neck, tone turning sheepish, raising in pitch in a beautiful way that has Minho’s heart skip. He’s not used to that tone from him this late in the evening. Or, well—it is early morning, technically. “Or, you know. At your place, if you’re more comfortable. But, uh, I guess that is a bit presumptuous—”

“No,” Minho cuts, because he can’t have Chan thinking that he doesn’t want him around, when it’s completely the opposite. “No, I mean, yes, of course. Yeah. Your place?”

It’s not that Minho doesn’t want to have Chan over. It’s rather that he doesn’t trust himself to have him over. Not yet.

Relief floods Chan’s features, and he nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, of course, yes! My place, then. Uh, like, ten, eleven? Are you an early riser?”

“I am, yeah.”

“Oh. Well, I’m a bit of a night owl, so—”

“I would have never guessed,” Minho snorts.

Chan rolls his eyes, but not without a chuckle. “Ten’s a bit early, so. Eleven?”

“Eleven works. I’ll see you then, Chan-hyung.”

“You know, just—just Chan, is fine. You don’t—I don’t mind.”

Minho doesn’t really care, either. None of them do. It just slips out from time to time, a familiar thing, especially as he hears it in his own kitchen, sometimes. While most of the staff usually don’t bother with anything other than his name or chef, Felix and Jisung tend to call him hyung out of habit too, having known him the longest. Minho doesn’t know when he’s started using it with Chan, or what it says about him.

He pouts to prevent a smile from taking over his features. It doesn’t really work, anyway. “Okay, Channie. See you.”

Chan scoffs, but it’s soft, tender, and Minho eats it up. “Sure, Minho. See you tomorrow.”

Warm light welcomes him when he enters Chan’s apartment the next day.

It’s a modest one bedroom, but it’s neat, homey, and well lived-in. The living room is decorated tastefully, plants taking up space in a few corners, a few manga volumes and many CDs and vinyl records occupying most of the space in various nooks and bookshelves. There’s pictures scattered in frames or stuck to their corners, posters nicely framed on the walls. Music plays from the speakers, something catchy and smooth.

The kitchen has oak cabinets and clean, granite-imitation counters. It’s old-fashioned but practical, and there is plenty of counter space, which helps them settle comfortably as they start cooking. A small coffee station is tucked in a corner; an Italian espresso machine, next to a mocha pot and a kettle. Minho spies boxes of teabags stacked on one another, in a way that feels both organized and messy at once.

“I love your brisket bowl, Minho,” Chan admits, as he starts searing the meat. It makes a beautiful sound the moment it touches the cast iron pan he has taken out for the occasion. Not quite what they use at the restaurant, but Minho doesn’t mind. “It’s one of my favourites on the menu, honestly.”

“But it’s not good enough for you, still, is it?” he teases as he works on the greens next to him on the stove. He can’t help the teasing, cannot keep himself from relishing in the blush that tinges Chan’s ears red as he stutters through his reply.

“It’s not what I—”

“I know, Channie.” That stuck, too. The nickname. Channie. Minho had offered it as a joke, the night before, but his mind cannot help but bring it up again and again, pushing it past his lips. Channie. Channie! Channie~. Chan… Channie. “It’s my favourite, too, you know.”

“Really?” Minho catches him glance towards him from the corner of his eye.

“Hm. It’s simple. I like simple.”

“I do too.” Chan turns to check the meat, before he continues. “I would’ve guessed the seafood platter was your favourite. Or the lobster bowl. Or even the ramen; I know you and Seungmin worked a long time on those dishes.”

They did. It was Seungmin’s idea to get rid of the more traditional noodle dishes on the original menu and offer reimagined ramen ones instead. Minho only really helped him along, developing the broths and finding the perfect provider for the fresh noodles, and cannot take the credit for those dishes.

And they aren’t his favourite. “I like the seafood platter, and the lobster bowl. I like every item on the menu. But the brisket’s my baby.”

“Is it, now,” Chan hums. Here, in the quiet of his house, with mellow R&B playing from a Bluetooth speaker in the adjacent living room, his voice takes on the same quality it does after a night of service: a low hum, a quiet thing, warm, so, so warm. It’s not even noon, yet. “Okay, this is good enough. Can you pass me the glaze, please?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Sweet, thanks.”

It’s casual, here. No titles or kitchen hierarchy setting them apart or camping them into roles, as fluid as those may be at work. The pouring sunlight from the windows and the dark, oversized sweater hanging from Chan’s broad shoulders seem to soften his edges and this bond they share, too. They’re just Chan and Minho, cooking in Chan’s kitchen on a Monday morning.

Minho removes the greens from the heat. He plates them delicately over the rice, moves to rinse the pan and quickly wash it before Chan’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Leave them, Minho, come on. I didn’t invite you over to clean the dishes—”

“No, you didn’t. You only invited me here to cook for you, hm?” Minho rinses the pan, grabs the soapy sponge from the side, cleans it thoroughly.

He looks over his shoulder and catches Chan rolling his eyes, even if he doesn’t look back his way. His ears are fully red, now. “You’re insufferable. We’re cooking together! I could’ve done everything myself too, you know!”

“Hm. But this is nice.” Us. Together. Cooking. Together. Us. Honesty clogs at Minho’s throat like sticky honey, sweet and delicious and itching, too, somehow. “Right?”

“It is, yeah.” The smile is evident in Chan’s voice. It twists his words and gives them a silky, sunny quality.

Chan’s notes for the brisket were, all in all, rather simple. Improve the dip by seasoning it a bit more before emulsion; reduce the glaze just a little longer—thirty seconds, tops—to make it just a touch sweeter. It had come up in Minho’s own analysis of the dish, from a few nights ago. “Your recipe is flawless, Minho. I just wanted to add a little more depth to it.”

He doesn’t mind.

They don’t sit down to taste it—Chan takes the plate from Minho’s hands with delicate ones, deposits it in front of him on the counter, cuts the meat in bite-sized slices with steady hands before laying it over the bed of rice. He scoops a bite with a bit of everything—rice, greens, mushrooms, meat—before taking another spoon and pouring some of the dip on top.

He brings the bite to Minho’s mouth. Minho blinks. “Are you trying to feed me?”

“I would if you’d open your mouth, darling.”

Not a word is said on the term of endearment, on how just hours before Chan had asked him to stick to his name and nothing else. Not that it matters. Not that Minho cares.

He stares right into Chan’s eyes—brown, open, so unbelievably expressive when Minho lets himself look—and opens his mouth, waits patiently as Chan brings the spoon to his lips. He closes them around it, pulls back slowly and licks his lips as he chews. Watches as Chan’s eyes track the motion, sharp and unmoving.

Heat pools at his gut. He hums, quietly, and Chan exhales softly before pulling back with a shaky breath. His pale cheeks are on fire, red and glowing under the midday sun. Minho knows he probably isn’t faring any better, but doesn’t mind the way his body reacts to Chan, like this, when it’s just the two of them.

He still makes a point to taste what he’s eating—and, well. Chan is right. The depth of flavour is heightened, like this. It works, and it works well, and he can’t say he didn’t expect it to, when anything Chan does is be nothing short of perfect, either. “It’s good.”

“Yeah?” Chan’s front teeth dig into his plush bottom lip. It’s Minho’s turn to stare.

He clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. Really good. Work it out with Hyunjin if you haven’t already, but you can move on with it like this from now on. It’s much better, I think.”

“Just like that?” Chan laughs, a delighted sound. “I’d have expected a bit of push back before changing your favourite menu item.”

“Why?” Minho is honest. It’s his best trait, if he says so himself. “This is good. We both know you obviously know what you’re doing. I like it, and I trust that you can get it done without setting back the entire kitchen with a couple more extra steps. Why would I push back?”

There’s an edge to Chan’s stare—it’s not harsh, or anything, quite the opposite. Like he’s seeing Minho’s trust for what it is, for the first time, blooming under it. Welcomes it with open arms, and a little bit of awe, too. “Oh. Yeah. Thanks, Minho. I appreciate it.”

“Of course, Channie,” he grins with a wink, and it helps diffuse the temporary tension—though Minho didn’t hate it. Not the way Chan was looking at him, intense yet reverent, not the way he felt about it, either. Oh, well. “Of course.”

⊹₊⟡⋆

Something shifts after that. It’s small, but it’s there, and it’s not long before others start noticing, too.

It’s rather subtle, though, at first. Chan will catch his eye more often, will hold it for longer, kind gaze more intense than it used to be. Minho, too, won’t pull away his gaze as quickly as before. There’s something in those eyes that is captivating, keeping him in place—even just a second, during the rush of service—and even when Chan smiles or Minho narrows his eyes playfully, there’s an edge to it that doesn’t leave him for the rest of the day. Energy buzzing in his limbs that he cannot shake off until he goes to sleep that night.

Minho can’t help but notice that the stare tends to linger against his lips, more often than not. He finds himself licking them more and more, as days go by.

Chan hovers, too. Not when it gets busy—they work so well, too well for that to happen—but during prep, or any moment of slow downtime. They don’t get those often, but when they do, he’ll find himself a step away from Minho’s back, teasing, or asking him something, or simply just… being there. His presence a cloak behind him, around him; cheeks nearly touching, or a hand hovering around his hip, the small of his back.

That’s when everyone starts to notice.

One raised eyebrow from Hyunjin, a frown from Jisung, a scoff from Seungmin. Felix, when he catches Chan laughing close against Minho’s ear one day, lets his eyes go wide before his expression turns near devious, and Minho has to stare him down for him to at least cower a little bit and stop his antics.

No one really says a word, though. Everyone knows, and everyone knows everyone has noticed, Chan included. But it’s unspoken, only left to be glaringly obvious without mention. An open secret, though it somehow still feels uniquely theirs—Chan and Minho’s.

“You’re trying something with cherries?”

Felix is in the kitchen again when Minho arrives to work one morning, dutifully removing the stems from a bag of fresh, dark cherries. He looks up at the sound of Minho’s voice, smiles as he nods. “Hey, Minho-hyung. Yeah, I thought of something last night.”

“A brand new dessert?”

“Nah. Just want to start exploring with jams. Thought I’d start with cherries, first.”

“Ooh, did someone say cherries?”

It’s a little silly, how Minho’s heart squeezes and stutters just at the sound of Chan’s voice. It’s embarrassing. It’s addicting.

When he turns, he finds him approaching Felix’s station, beanie low on his head, curls peeking out of it and ticking his lashes. Minho is not staring.

“Hey, Chris,” Felix greets him, his grin widening. “Yeah, I’m making jam. D’you want some? I can leave a jar for you in the fridge when I’m done.”

“Oh, sweet. Yeah, thanks Lix,” Chan smiles, before turning to Minho. And then—doesn’t say anything. Just stares, beatific smile on his lips, dimples poking his cheeks.

His attention is as unnerving as it is addicting.

Minho huffs, feeling the skin of his ears burn as he looks away from that gaze and turns towards Felix instead. “What about me? No jam for me?”

“Oh? Since when do you care about cherry jam? You don’t even like cherries that much.”

It’s true. As popular as they are, Minho finds them a little too tart for his taste—even the sweet, dark ones—and rarely ever seeks them out. Felix knows this, and Minho knows that Felix knows this.

Chan, though, doesn’t. Minho was sort of counting on Felix picking up what he was trying to put down, or whatever. “Oh, really? That’s a shame, Minho. Cherries are great.”

“These are pretty sweet, too. Here, Chris, you should try some,” Felix says, nudging the bag of fruit his way.

Minho doesn’t stare, when Chan extends a hand to pick up a handful of cherries in his palm. He wears jewelry when he’s not cooking. Doesn’t stare when he brings one to his mouth, and the juice stains his lips red. They’re so plush, they’d feel so nice under his teeth. And definitely doesn’t stare, when Chan hums and licks his bottom lip to collect the remaining taste. “Hm, pretty good, yeah.” Minho doesn’t stare, when Chan glances his way. “Oh, here. Minho, check this.”

He watches as Chan picks the stem pinched between his thumb and forefinger, drops it on his tongue and brings it into his mouth. He watches, as Chan’s mouth works behind his closed lips—pretty, plump, red—his jaw twisting, muscles pulling tight under his skin. His jawline, sharp, on display with the slight angle from which Minho is watching—staring. He’s staring. Minho stares. Seconds feel like hours, Chan’s mouth is sinful, and Minho stares.

Minho stares and Chan stares back, intense like it’s just the two of them, eyes darkening as his tongue pokes his cheek, disappears. And then—

Chan opens his mouth again, tongue spilling out, and there it is—the cherry stem, sitting on top, tied in a pretty knot at the centre. There’s a smirk slowly forming at the corner of his lips, despite them still being parted, like he’s edging on Minho to keep staring—

“Where’d you learn this?” Minho asks, voice hushed, breathy like he’s just jogged a mile. He feels his entire face flaming with the force of his blush, but barely registers it, not with the way Chan’s eyes aren’t leaving him, not with the depth with which he’s being appraised by those eyes.

There’s a sick twist pulling at his stomach, at his gut, lower even.

Finally, Chan’s fingers pluck the knotted cherry stem from his tongue, and his smirk takes its place fully on his features when he replies, dimple making an appearance. “Back home in Sydney. One of my friends taught me back in high school.”

Minho doesn’t let himself imagine it. Doesn’t let himself think of other things that friend might’ve taught him.

He doesn’t get to say anything, anyway—Felix clears his throat loudly next to them on the other side of the counter, and Minho nearly startles. He’s a little ashamed to admit he did forget about him, for a second there.

“Riiiight. That’s a great party trick, Chan, but do you mind keeping the flirting away from my station?”

Chan only laughs—eyes crinkling with it, pupils disappearing with the force of his grin—and Minho shakes himself awake again.

“Whatever.” His voice isn’t as wobbly anymore, at least—he injects as much steady indifference as he can into it, even though he knows Chan will see right through him. “Deliveries are coming in fifteen. Chan, you’re coming to help me and Changbin with them.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Chan singsongs, and Minho tries not to shudder when his hand finds his shoulder, squeezing gently as he passes him. He doesn’t feel like he can breathe properly until Chan leaves the room.

Only then does his heartbeat slow. Only then does his flush recede. Minho’s mind, though, replays the images—Chan’s tongue, Chan’s mouth, his brown eyes behind his curls, Chan, Chan, Chan—on loop in his head, over and over again.

“Dude. Chan’s like, crazy about you.”

Minho’s head snaps up, zeroing on Jisung with all the might he can muster through his eyes. “I don’t think that’s appropriate talk in the kitchen during the height of service, chef.”

They’re in a rush, but it is waning—enough for Chan to excuse himself a few minutes to the bathroom, and Minho taking back his post as he handles the last few mains being called in from the dining room.

Jisung only rolls his eyes, raising an eyebrow as he plates a salad. Mango delight, for table 46. “You’ve never cared about appropriate talk before, hyung,” he says, knowing. “We’ve had to endure Hyunjin and Changbin’s mating ritual for years. I haven’t heard you say shit about that once!”

“Hey!” Hyunjin calls from the stove. “There’s no—we’re not—what the fuck do you mean, a mating ritual?”

Seungmin snorts. “It’s a pretty good comparison, actually. Here, chef. One premium ramen and one doenjang all ready to go.”

“Thank you, chef.” Minho crosses off the items, moves to garnish the two plates as quickly as possible before he calls for hands. He sighs, only speaks again when the server’s gone. “I haven’t said anything about those two because they manage to keep their couples’ quarrel outside of the kitchen, Sung.”

“Oh, bullshit!” Jisung exclaims. “They’ve been ignoring each other for like five weeks now! Changbin hasn’t spent more than five minutes in the kitchen during service ‘cause he’s a jealous loser. Meanwhile, Hyunjin can’t fucking bring himself to admit that he’s head over heels for him. And we’re all over here just watching!”

Hyunjin stutters at his post, and Minho almost pities him—if Jisung wasn’t right, he would. “Changbin’s not jealous—it’s none of your fucking business anyway, Jisung!”

“That’s exactly my point,” Minho cuts in. “They aren’t talking about their nonsense. Unlike you,” he glances up at Jisung. “Have you got that mango delight ready, chef?”

“Yes chef,” Jisung sighs. “Anyway, I was just trying to be a good friend. Chan is obsessed with you. We can all tell.”

Minho can tell, too. To a certain extent. He doesn’t say this, though—mostly because it is embarrassing, mainly because it feels vulnerable. “Still none of your concern, chef.”

“Five bucks Chan fucks Minho in the office by the end of the month,” Seungmin says.

Minho thinks of cherry stems. Would Chan do the fucking? It’s not an unpleasant thought.

Hyunjin, it seems, jumps at the chance to divert the conversation away from himself. “Ten bucks it happens by the end of the week. Have you seen the way they look at each other?”

Knotted cherry stems. The visual hasn’t left him since the morning.

“Alright, deal. Jisung, you in?”

Minho inhales slow, exhales even slower.

“Twenty it happens tonight—”

“What are we betting on?” Chan asks, pushing the doors open as he waltzes in, taking his post next to Minho, pulling his sleeves up to his elbows. Veins run prominent under pale skin, stretching over the firm muscle of lean forearms. Minho doesn’t stare.

Wordlessly, Chan comes to stand before the cutting board, and that’s how Minho knows he’s handling the orders for the rest of the night. Seamless, the two of them.

Would it be the same, elsewhere?

“One brisket and one lobster, please, chef,” Minho tells him.

Chan looks up, winks. “Yes, chef. So? What is it that we’re betting on?”

Minho smirks, sly, pulling at one corner of his mouth. He drags his eyes over Chan’s face, his expectant eyes, his sweet, curious smile. His glance drops down to his wrists—jewelry gone, now, in the heat of service—tracing the ridges running over the back of his hands. Yeah, it would probably be the same. “Hm, nothing. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Channie.”

He hears him scoff next to him, but it turns quickly into a soft chuckle. He drinks it in, lets it wash over him. It’s a low sound, this late into the night. “Okay, alright.”

Minho ignores Jisung’s own scandalized scoff, and Seungmin and Hyunjin’s joint cackle. They’re got a service to finish, after all.

“Do you want to come up?”

Chan has never invited him in after a shift. In fact, he has never invited him over aside from that one Monday, a few weeks prior. Midday sun against warm walls, easy smiles, a conversation that was mostly work yet unlocked something else between the two of them.

This. Whatever this is.

“What for?” Minho asks, just because he can. They know this dance by heart. His heart shudders in the hollow of his chest.

“A glass of water. Or a drink. I’ve got some pretty good wine, if you want.” Chan’s smile is a little shy—he’s biting the corner of his bottom lip—but Minho can see how he also wears confidence, through his stance, his words, his boldness.

“Wine sounds nice, yeah.”

“Cool.”

The climb upstairs is silent. Minho is tuned into Chan’s slow breathing, the way the darkness glides over his form, the way he moves. They reach his doors in barely a few seconds, but it feels so much longer than that—with the way Minho is holding his breath, anticipating.

Chan is ever the gracious host—offering water, pulling the bottle of wine from his pantry along with two glasses. He looks different, like this, when the sunlight’s gone from his home and it’s only them two and the comfort of the night. The mellow lights of his kitchen wash him in yellow tones, his nose painting a stark shadow across his face, his curls falling in soft waves around his face, across his forehead.

Want builds in Minho, probably has for weeks, months now. He feels breathless with it, but approaches Chan with steady steps, still, like he’s complete control.

“There you go.” Chan slides him a glass, and Minho accepts it without a word. They don’t say a word, but Minho doesn’t stray his eyes from Chan’s as he takes a careful sip of the wine.

It’s a red. There’s a hint of something in the aroma that makes him raise an eyebrow. “Cherry, hm.”

When Chan smiles then, it’s sexy—confident. “Yeah. It’s a shame you don’t like ‘em. I could’ve taught you my little trick.”

“Don’t let that stop you, come on.” Minho knows an opening when he sees one. “You can teach me anyway.”

“Yeah?” Chan pulls himself from the counter, approaches Minho where he stands against the wall. “I didn’t ask Felix for his cherry stems, though.”

“Be creative,” Minho tells him, losing himself in the breadth of Chan’s shoulders, so close to him now—they’re standing nearly chest to chest, and Chan’s eyes haven’t stopped watching him, his every move. “Come up with something.”

Those eyes drop down to his lips when he can’t move any closer—Minho feels him, when his chest expands as he breathes in. So close. So warm.

“Can I kiss you?” Chan whispers, lips unbelievably close to Minho’s. It’s barely a murmur, his voice almost gone, just breath. It sounds almost anxious, like the determined front he put on just moments prior had vanished to leave way for needy desperation.

Minho smiles, his own words just a quiet, delicate thing. “Of course you can, Channie.”

It’s all it takes.

Chan closes the distance and kisses him—a press of his lips, catching Minho’s top lip with his plush ones, breathing in as he does so. It’s a slow thing, and the want in Minho’s gut simmers quietly, grows as the seconds pass. He feels a strong yet gentle hand come up to his jaw, tilting his head slightly, and Minho goes, kisses back when Chan presses in again—he has to restrain himself from biting at Chan’s bottom lip, parts his lips instead and feels Chan exhale against him, his own hands coming to clutch at Chan’s hips.

A low hum is dropped into his mouth—Minho’s favourite sound, the most beautiful thing he’s heard. “Minho…”

It’s delightful, to hear his name said like this, dripping with disbelieving desire. Like Chan cannot believe that Minho is here kissing him, wants him, even though Chan has been part of Minho’s every waking thought ever since he’d stepped into Minho’s kitchen.

Minho leans in, catches Chan’s mouth parted around a sigh and licks into his mouth. The reaction is near instantaneous—Chan moans at the drag of his tongue, hand tightening around his jaw and another snaking towards his waist as Minho pulls him flush against his body with his own. Their kiss grows deep, languid, and Minho catches himself groaning and sighing into Chan’s mouth more than once.

And Chan, Chan—he sounds heavenly, Minho thinks; small, clipped sounds escaping his throat, pouring into Minho’s mouth, panting when they part for just a second before he chases after Minho’s lips like cannot get enough.

He feels drunk on it all—the flush of Chan’s cheeks, his burning ears, the sheen to his eyes when he looks into them; the spit coating his bitten-red lips, the desperate look in his eyes, like a parched man who’s finally found his oasis in the desert within the shape of Minho’s mouth.

He snakes a hand between them, feeling the muscle under Chan’s clothes, strong to the touch yet pliant under his palm—his shoulders, the firm expanse of his chest, the ridges of his stomach. He dips lower, fingers catching at his belt, then lower still, and feels Chan shudder and choke around a gasp when his hand presses at the hard line of his cock through his jeans. He finally catches Chan’s bottom lip between his teeth, pulling and humming as Chan groans against him.

“Channie, baby,” Minho murmurs, pulling away slightly and bringing his other hand to frame Chan’s chin, keeping him in place mere centimetres from his face.

Chan looks debauched, from just a little bit of kissing. Minho has barely touched him. He wants him, needs him—on his knees with his head tilted up, tears sliding down his flushed cheeks, or spread out on his back, whimpering and crying a little with his cock inside him. “Hm?”

“Where’s your bedroom, baby?”

A whine catches at Chan’s throat, who bites his bottom lip and closes his fingers around Minho’s wrist at his jaw. It’s such a soft, delicate touch—despite the heat of their kissing just moments before, the implication of what Minho is asking. He still seems to keep tenderness for Minho in his every action, and part of Minho’s heart melts at the thought.

He melts, and he falls. Minho falls, and falls, and falls.

⊹₊⟡⋆

It becomes a little bit of a game after that.

Minho still takes his job seriously—and so does Chan, obviously. They’re both incredibly steadfast about their job. It’s what makes them such a great team, after all—the intent with which they handle their work, the implicit trust they have for the other to do the same.

So Minho keeps working, and keeps doing it well, with Chan by his side. It’s just—everything’s, like, more. More fun. More exciting. More enticing, more thrilling. He feels like a teenager again, even at twenty-seven.

Chan’s palm against his waist when he passes by him during service. Minho trailing his fingers at the expanse of his shoulders when he does the same. The touches are fleeting and barely last a moment—barely enough to be noticed, to be any different from usual; barely enough to disturb the flow of service rush or their quick reflexes in the kitchen. But Minho feels it all—knows Chan feels it too—and it makes a slight shudder run down his spine every time he lets himself think about it.

“Do you think they’ve fucked yet?” he hears Seungmin ask Jisung with a hushed voice during prep a few days later.

“I told you, man. It happened already. That night. You better get me my twenty by tomorrow.”

A sigh. “You don’t know that. We can’t prove that.”

“Sure, babe. Keep telling yourself that.”

They become incredibly good at finding a pretext or another to excuse themselves. It should give them away, really, Minho muses—and he’s pretty sure Jisung and Felix have picked up on it, the observant pair they make—but they seem to get away with it still, despite the long glances they’ve been getting more and more often from Changbin or Seungmin.

“Minho, can I get your eye on something for a second?”

Minho glances up at Chan, finds him peeking from the hall, thumb pointing behind him towards the office. “Accounting?”

“Yeah. Just something I need to pass by you, chef.”

It should be obvious, really. It probably is. They should all know that the moment the office door clicks shut and locked behind Minho, he has Chan flipped and crowded against it, kissing him fervently and licking into his mouth almost immediately.

Chan keens under his touch, a slow smile spreading on his lips as Minho’s hand moves towards his throat, over his pulse—not pressing, not squeezing; just a presence, a touch that has him trembling under Minho’s palm. It’s dizzying, the way his hand looks over that neck; pale skin stretching over muscle yet fluttering under the graze of his touch.

“I want—I want—” Chan chokes out, unable to separate from Minho’s mouth long enough to form a thought, but that’s okay—Minho gets it, gets him.

He presses one last kiss on those sinful lips before he pulls back. “On your knees, baby. I miss your mouth.”

Chan moans, throws his head back against the door as Minho kisses down his neck. “God, fuck, how’d you know?”

“I just know, Channie,” he smiles against the wet skin of his throat. “I know.”

Chan’s tongue feels deliriously good around him—Minho hates to think this way, really, but it feels as though Chan’s mouth was made for him, made to take him in, and it feels as though Chan thinks so, too. Minho has to run his thumb under his eyes repeatedly, catching a few stray tears as Chan closes his eyes, taken by arousal and something else, magnificent, as he sucks around Minho’s cock.

When he comes with a cry, shoving his hand against his mouth to smother the moan spilling out of his throat, he feels Chan hum and whimper around him—and when he pulls him up to his feet later, Chan’s legs give out under him, and Minho’s eyes widen when they catch on the obvious wet patch at the front of his slacks. “Oh my God, Chan. Don’t tell me—”

Sheepish, Chan bites his lip—he keeps doing that, Minho observes. Shy yet sly, like he knows how it drives Minho absolutely crazy. “What can I say? You feel so good, darling. You make me feel so good.”

He goes easily with a giggle when Minho pulls him in, even though he could easily pull away, should he want to—Minho tastes himself on his tongue, groaning at the feeling. How perfect is he, coming in his pants with his mouth full. “You’ll be the death of me, baby.”

“Hm, I’m counting on it.”

Turns out Chan has a spare pair of pants in the office anyway. Minho congratulates him with a peck on his nose and a promise for more when they’ll find themselves in bed later.

When they make it back to the kitchen, chef whites slightly rumpled—still clean, thank you very much—Jisung narrows his eyes at them. “Accounting, huh.”

“Oh, yeah.” Chan clears his throat as he washes his hands thoroughly next to him, nods with frowning brows. Minho has to pull strength from the highest power above to restrain himself from laughing. “Just—crunching numbers, you know. Not my forte. Glad Minho could help.”

Minho hums, music in his voice. “Of course, Chan. That’s part of my job, after all.”

“Ugh, I hate to admit it, Jisung, but you’re right,” Hyunjin mutters as he passes them to walk towards the cold room. “They’re fucking insufferable.”

“No—they’re fucking, and they’re insufferable.”

Seungmin sighs. “We still have no proof of that—”

“Don’t you guys have shit to do?” Minho cuts, taking on his most authoritative voice as he walks towards Felix’s station to help him with prep. “Come on, less talking, more cooking, chefs!”

He hears Jisung and Seungmin groan their abdication. In front of him, Felix only smirks. “Of course, chef.”

Minho scoffs, but drops it. It’s fine. They’re fine.

They almost get caught once. He thinks Chan almost gets off at the thought, if Minho’s honest.

They didn’t mean to find themselves in the bathroom together—not when the staff bathroom is a single, cramped room, which makes a situation like theirs, two grown men locking themselves in furtively, rather difficult to explain if they were to be caught.

But Chan just had to lick at Minho’s thumb, when a drop of sauce he had been trying a new recipe for landed there while whisking it to completion. It’s still rather early in the morning—just around nine, Minho has been here since eight, and Chan has only just joined him. Just them two in the kitchen, Minho cooking in the quiet of his space and Chan waltzing in like he belonged by Minho’s side.

Maybe he did.

Anyway—Chan’s tongue dragging against the pad of Minho’s thumb, his eyes looking at him through his lashes as his lips closing around the digit.

“Bathroom,” Minho breathed, and Chan followed with a pleased chuckle.

So here they are—in the staff bathroom, the restaurant empty anyway, and Minho has his fingers shoved into Chan’s waiting mouth, saliva collecting onto them as he swirls his tongue around.

“You really can’t get enough, huh,” Minho notes in a whisper, mesmerized by the sight before him—Chan’s closed eyes, the near serene expression of his relaxed traits, the column of his throat as he leans back against the wall. “You’re so desperate for this, it’s crazy.”

It’s just an observation. Minho doesn’t even mean it to sound like dirty talk—but Chan still groans around his fingers, sucks them with even more vigour into the heat of his mouth. It’s still a stunning surprise, to be able to render a man like him absolutely pliant just through words and touch alone.

When Chan pulls off, he opens his eyes, casting his bleary ones onto Minho’s sharp, enraptured ones. “Minho, would you…”

It’s quite fascinating, if Minho truly lets himself think about it, how they’ve come so far in so little time. Minho’s sous becoming his most trusted presence in the kitchen in a matter of months, steady and sure, to this—how the tension of a kiss unraveled this beautiful, delicate, vulnerable thing they have. Chan trusting him with more than just work, but with his body, his pleasure, and Minho would hope to think, eventually, his heart.

They haven’t talked about it—haven’t let themselves talked about it, he has to admit—but he can’t really think of anything else with Chan’s mouth so close to his spit-slick fingers and that sweet, delectable desperation painted all over his face.

“What do you want, baby? Use your words,” he soothes, his clean hand coming to card through Chan’s dark curls, catching at the strands, pushing them away from his forehead.

Chan leans into his touch, the line of his body relaxing into it. “Would you finger me, Minho? Make me come just like this.”

Minho swears under his breath, leans in to press a kiss on Chan’s exposed forehead. “You’d want that, Channie?” Chan nods slowly, eyes blinking up at him, and Minho coos. “Hyung would have to be quick, you know. Anyone could come in and hear you, if I take my time with you.”

He doesn’t mean to do that—to reverse roles, to play with him like this, the word slipping out of his mouth without a thought; to do this without discussing it beforehand—but it barely matters when Chan moans at his words, biting his lips and nodding vigorously. “Yes, yes, don’t worry. I’ll be good, I’ll be so good, hyung, please, just—please, can you do it?”

Minho’s fingers find themselves in Chan’s mouth again, who hums around them as he sucks gently. “Of course, baby. Hyung will take care of you.”

Chan’s rather bold request makes sense when Minho’s fingers finally breach his hole, his pants completely off and discarded in a clean corner of the room with one of his legs hiked up around Minho’s hips—the muscle there is looser than it should be, and Minho moans against the skin of Chan’s neck where he tucked his face.

“Minho, please—”

“You’ve prepared for this,” Minho says, teeth catching at the skin under him, tasting salt on his tongue. “Was it this morning, hm? Did you think about me opening you up while you did it?”

No words are leaving Chan’s mouth anymore—but he nods again, a small smile on his lips, like he’s floating and the sound of Minho’s voice and his hands are the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. He sighs when Minho kisses his neck in reward, licking at the warm skin.

It’s easy, then, to slip two fingers, and soon three, into him, watching as he opens his mouth at the stretch as he braces himself against the counter behind him, his cock leaking where it stands between them. Minho wishes they could be doing this in bed—Chan’s bed, or his own, somewhere, anywhere—so he could lie him down gently, undress him properly, take him into his mouth as he keeps working his fingers inside him—

He takes him so well. It doesn’t take long before Chan’s voice catches around a series of moans delivered straight into Minho’s mouth as he kisses him and continues to press relentlessly as his prostate with his fingers—unravelling and so close to his climax, God, Minho wishes he was inside him right now—when suddenly someone rattles the door handle, the sound loud in the enclosed space of the bathroom.

Minho stops, and Chan swallows the whimper caught at his throat before he pulls away from Minho’s lips.

Minho heaves, breathes, tries to keep his voice steady as he turns his head slightly towards the door. “Yeah?”

“Minho?” comes Changbin’s voice, muffled through the door. “I figured it’s you. I saw some sauce lying around the kitchen—are you okay?”

Right. The sauce. The kitchen. The day that’s about to start. Minho almost feels bad at the worry bleeding into Changbin’s words. “Um, yeah. I’m—I’m okay, just give me a second. I’ll come and clean up soon. You can—” he clears his throat, tries again, “you can start loading in the produce if it’s here already.”

He feels Chan squirms—lifting his leg to hike up higher around Minho’s waist, muscled thigh hugging his side—and turns towards him, watches as he tries to move around Minho’s fingers with his lips pressed together, eyes glassy; taunting him to keep moving, keep going, even with Changbin on the other side of the door.

Minho’s blood freezes, and then immediately runs hotter, heat flooding his senses and deepening his arousal. His fingers give a tentative push, and Chan’s back arches at the touch, a soft sigh escaping him through his nose.

Changbin’s voice cuts in. “Okay, uh. Are you sure you’re okay in there? I heard a bit of noise, and—”

“No, I’m fine,” Minho interrupts immediately, voice loud as Chan nearly mewls at the words. It’s absolutely sick, and Minho loves every second if it. “I’m good, Binnie, I’ll be out in a moment, I promise.”

“Alright, Min. If you say so.” Retreating steps follow his words, before silence settles in.

When it’s been long enough without a disturbance, Minho leans in, kisses Chan’s swollen mouth slowly as his fingers start to move again—spreading wider, pushing harder, and Chan trembles around him, desperate.

“You enjoyed this,” he says, awe bleeding into his voice, and Chan nods against his lips, speechless yet so sensitive, so expressive. His eyes are wide with tears, his flush high on his cheeks, and Minho adores him, maybe.

When Chan comes, he does so with Minho’s name on his tongue. When Minho comes minutes later, sweat beading at his forehead with Chan’s hand around him, he does so as he pulls him into a kiss—long, unhurried, more than just lust poured into it.

“Thank you,” says Chan when they’ve cleaned up and straightened their clothes, a high tune smothered into Minho’s ear. A soft tone, a feeling he can’t describe.

Minho’s favourite song.

⊹₊⟡⋆

Jeongin starts his stage at Minho’s restaurant on a Thursday.

“Everyone, say hi,” he tells staff that morning, during a rare meeting before deliveries come in and they kickstart their day. He’d called them all in earlier for the occasion. “Jeongin came straight from Busan all the way here to us. He’ll be staging with us for a month before he joins the team with Felix.”

“Ooh, a pastry chef,” Jisung smiles. “That’ll be fun.”

“He’s so cute,” Hyunjin coos, and Minho watches as Changbin’s eyes snap up to him immediately at the comment. Seungmin, standing off to the side, says nothing, keeps an undecipherable look on Jeongin as the scene unfolds around him.

Jeongin, bless him, only blushes and shakes his head at the compliment. “I’m really happy to be here. This place was my first choice for stage, I’m just really thankful to be given a chance to work here.”

Minho smirks, but doesn’t tease him just yet. Jeongin will learn his quirks with time, no need to start so soon in his stage.

“You’ll spend most of your first week with Chan, here. He’s my sous-chef.” When he points to Chan, the older smiles, crinkled eyes and dimples on display, and Minho tries not to stare. He fails. “That one’s Jisung, he’s garde-manger, and we have Hyunjin, and over there is Seungmin. You’ve met Lix, of course, who’s our wonderful in-house pastry chef. Chan can go over everyone’s tasks a bit more in detail later. Changbin’s our maître d’, he’ll introduce you to the waiting staff at our pre-service meeting.”

Jeongin bows at them, and it’s so uncommon for their team that Hyunjin snorts at the sight. It doesn’t deter their stage, though—he rises with a dimpled smile, unaffected. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all. I can’t wait to start working.”

“No wiser words have ever been spoken in this kitchen,” says Chan with a clap of his hands as he comes to stand next to Minho. “Jeongin, you’re with me. Everyone, get ready for delivery and prep, come on!”

Just before nine. The day starts. Minho’s kitchen comes to life.

Having Jeongin around is great. It’s lovely! It’s sweet. Minho loves a good mentoring moment. He does! He really, really does. He prides himself on it, even. Loves that his kitchen can be a playground for learning and growth.

Felix only has high praise for him. Hyunjin and Jisung hover over him like they would a small animal, despite the fact that once service starts, Jeongin’s razor-edged focus reshapes the features of his face to make his eyes look colder than he is. And Seungmin—well. Minho doesn’t really know what Seungmin quite thinks of their new intern, but his hesitance doesn’t seem to stem from mistrust rather than an oddly misplaced admiration, most likely.

But Jeongin’s presence also means Chan is busy—like, actually, really busy. Jeongin follows him like an eager, dutiful shadow, which means it is increasingly difficult—not to say impossible, but nearly—for Minho to get him alone at any time of the day anymore. Minho runs the kitchen with his own voice now, while Chan’s soft tone is occupied with teaching.

And he can’t blame Jeongin for his feelings, either. He is excellent in the kitchen, listens attentively whenever Chan coaches him on their in-house habits or teaches him a recipe, and his smile quite literally lights up the kitchen whenever someone manages to make him laugh. Minho is rather pleasantly surprised—not that he had doubts to begin with, but it is not every day you meet a staging chef with such quick wit, tremendous work ethic, and a personality that blends wonderfully with the rest of your team’s.

Yet—he misses Chan.

It’s stupid. He’s right here, across from him, glancing up every few minutes just to throw him a quick, knowing glance or a wink—yet Minho feels as though they are miles apart, because they don’t talk, they don’t touch. Jeongin catches them, sometimes, exchanging a look, and Minho should feel embarrassed to be found out so quickly, so easily, but he can’t help it—and lets it slide, too, when the only reaction Jeongin offers is a shy smile of his own, lowering his gaze with something akin to fondness in his eyes.

He’s only been here a week.

Then one morning, Chan comes in just before nine with a little brown bag in his hand, skin red from the cold as he slides it across the stainless steel counter towards Minho with a quick, gentle smile. “Here. Breakfast.”

Minho raises his eyebrows, hands still behind his back as he ties his apron. “I never asked for breakfast.”

Chan shrugs, stepping closer. “I know. But this place is pretty good, I figured you’d enjoy it. Fig jam and fresh cheese on toast. Give it a try for me, hm?”

When he peers into the bag, there’s a small baguette cut in half covered in golden yellow jam and white cheese. It does look good, honestly. “And what are you trying to bribe me for, exactly?”

A soft laugh answers him, before Chan moves to stand impossibly close to him—his chest covering Minho’s back, a solid hand settling on his hip, the cold tip of his nose brushing against Minho’s burning cheek, making him shiver. “It’s not a bribe, Minho. It’s a gift.”

“A gift?”

“Yeah. It means, ‘I miss you, too.’”

“Who said I missed you?” The retort is automatic, but even he can tell it doesn’t sound genuine. He already feel his cheeks flame under the shame, burning hotter when Chan exhales another laugh against his skin. A sweet melody.

“You’re not exactly subtle, pouting at me like that. Did you know you kind of look like a cat, darling? Especially when you’re upset. All frowning eyes and red ears. It’s adorable.”

Minho scoffs, tries to jostle Chan’s shoulder to get him off his back, is secretly pleased when Chan doesn’t move an inch. “I think you’re imagining things, Bang Chan.”

“Am I, now?”

“You are, yeah. Go and get changed, and come back so that we—”

Chan’s hand at his hip grabs him, spins him swiftly so that they are facing each other, steel counter digging into the small of Minho’s back. He gasps, completely embraced by Chan’s arms like this, settled around his waist, and his hands lift up to Chan’s shoulders on their own without him even noticing.

“Minho,” Chan says. His tone is honey sweet, absolutely smitten, and something shatters and fuses back together in Minho’s chest. His eyes, this close, are so pretty, flitting all over Minho’s face like he cannot get enough of the sight in front of him. Minho flushes under the attention. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” he breathes back, but his hands slide to Chan’s neck in a soothing gesture. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.”

“I haven’t been giving you much attention, hm?”

Minho rolls his eyes. It’s tremendously gentle. “You’re just doing your job. You think I don’t know that?”

“I know,” Chan sighs. “But I just—I missed you.”

This time, the words don’t have the same teasing quality as they did just moments ago. Minho feels the sincerity in them, the vulnerable edge to them that comes from deep within Chan’s chest. Like he is a little scared to admit it even to himself—but not scared enough to let the words out, because it matters that much to him that Minho hears them and knows.

Something clicks at his throat at the thought. A knot of something so potent in emotion it makes him a little dizzy with it.

And so, Minho lets himself be honest, too. “I missed you too.”

The smile that blooms slowly over Chan’s features is nothing short of stunning—so unbelievably tender, lips stretching and still twitching at the edges, like he’s holding himself back from grinning too wide. Minho’s forefinger comes up to dig into his right dimple, and it pushes a small giggle out of Chan’s mouth. “There we go, darling. Was that so hard to admit?”

“Don’t push your luck, Bang Chan,” he huffs, but Minho finds himself smiling, too.

“Alright, alright.” A tilt of the head, brown curls falling into his eyes. Minho brushes them away. “Can I get a kiss?”

“A kiss?” A small nod. Minho raises an eyebrow, playful. “What if someone sees?”

It’s ridiculous how obvious Chan gets—eyebrows jumping slightly, lips parting, before he bites the corner of his lip with his top teeth. “Let them,” he offers under his breath.

And the thought of it is enticing, yes, but Minho also reads between the words a quiet admission: that this thing pulling them towards one another remains theirs, regardless of who looks upon them—it doesn’t matter. Let them. They’ll know you’re mine, and I’m yours.

Wordlessly, Minho leans in, slotting his lips against Chan’s, kissing him with all the care and gentleness he can muster. He feels Chan sigh softly into it, opening up just a touch, Minho’s top lip sliding seamlessly between his, his arms coming to hug him snugly against his frame. It’s so heart-wrenchingly sweet, heart skipping a beat inside Minho’s chest with the force of it, making him flutter his eyelids open as he parts away slowly.

With his eyes still closed, eyelashes fanning against his cheeks, Chan looks so blissfully happy, like this. It’s Minho’s turn to smile, unabashed and true. “Channie.”

“Yeah?” He blinks his eyes open, looking into Minho’s, absolutely charmed.

The breath that leaves Minho’s lips is shaky, unstable, a touch vulnerable. “Thank you for breakfast.” Thank you for everything. I really, really like you. Do you like me, too? The way I do? I really hope you do.

Thank you.

Chan scrunches his nose, before he tilts his head up to leave a peck on Minho’s forehead. “‘Course, babe.” He sighs, before pushing himself away with regret in his eyes—yet mirthful, still, and Minho cannot pull his eyes away. “I’ll go get changed and help you get the day started, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Minho breathes out. Chan spins on his heels as he walks away to face him, winks, and turns to disappear at the end of the hall.

Minho stays like this a moment, immobile, just getting his heart back to a normal rhythm, willing his flush to go down, breathing in slowly—

“Okay, that was cute.”

He startles, whips around to find Jisung leaning back against the door frame, smirking, his hand loosely intertwined with Felix’s, who’s beaming at him with the force of a thousand suns. So much for not blushing. “How long have you guys been here?”

“Long enough, hyung,” Jisung replies easily. He pushes himself off the wall and walks in, pulling a giggly Felix behind him. “So don’t even try to deny it this time. We saw everything.”

“You guys are adorable!” Felix shrieks, latching onto Jisung’s hand with both of his and shaking. “Man, I can’t believe it. This has never happened before.”

“What, Minho getting a boyfriend, or Minho being gross at work with his boyfriend?” Jisung snorts.

Wait—boyfriend?

“I mean, both, yeah. Hyung, when’s the last time you were in a relationship?”

Is Chan Minho’s boyfriend? Although it has happened before, it’s not in Minho’s habits to get involved with anyone at work—God knows he’s seen the chaos that causes—but Chan is different. They are different. The two of them. They mess around and are freakishly compatible and the thought of Chan’s touch alone is electrifying, but it’s more than that, isn’t it?

He thinks of Chan’s warmth, of the glow of his smile, of the light in his eyes, of his voice. Clear in the morning, then a low, tired hum once the night comes to a close. Soft, always, when he speaks to him. Rinse and repeat, once the next morning comes.

“Minho?” Jisung’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and he snaps up towards him, eyes sharpening a second too late in front of Jisung’s smirk.

“That’s not—ugh, just go and get ready for the day, guys,” he says with a sigh, tone attempting to be firm but fraying a little at the edges.

It doesn’t escape Jisung’s focus, who just shakes his head with a fond smile. “Sure thing, chef. We’ll be right out.”

Boyfriends. Minho doesn’t hate the sound of that.

“Are you my boyfriend?”

“Huh?”

They’ve decided to walk past Chan’s place, today, and head straight to Minho’s building. The entire night, the idea has been festering inside his mind, pushing against every other thought, begging to be let out—and so it comes out like this, blurted out clumsily from his lips as they stand in Minho’s apartment, front door barely closed behind them.

Minho blinks his embarrassment away, watches as Chan blinks back, dumbfounded, most of his frame washed by the darkness of the night spilling in from the windows.

“I mean—I just. I was, uh. Wondering.” It’s not in Minho’s habits to stutter—to lose his footing so plainly, glaringly obvious with his anxiety. Still, it doesn’t feel too stressful, when it’s in front of Chan.

Chan, who shakes his head before looking straight into Minho’s eyes, painstakingly earnest. “I’m not sure I’m following.”

Oh. Well—that isn’t exactly what Minho was expecting. “Right. I just mean, like—I don’t mind if you just want us to be, I don’t know. No strings attached, or whatever.” That’s a fucking lie. “But I also—what I mean to say is, I was wondering if, like. We were. Boyfriends. To you. In your mind?” he finishes, unsure, voice small even to his ears.

How incredibly eloquent.

Facing him, Chan stands perfectly still, eyes wide with something Minho isn’t quite able to decipher, before he sighs deeply and speaks. “Minho.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you asking me if we’re together?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Do you want us to be?”

And the full answer is a little more than what Minho would allow himself to admit—he doesn’t only want it, rather than he craves it; doesn’t think the word boyfriend is enough to describe what Chan has come to mean to him in the span of a few weeks or months; hopes with all his might that this is Chan wants, craves, too. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that a lot.”

Not unlike this morning, the way the smile sketches itself on Chan’s features is beautiful, relief digging deep into the crinkles around his eyes. “Okay, good. ‘Cause I would like that a lot, too.” He narrows his eyes with a playful tilt of his head. “Honestly, I was kind of under the impression that you already were my boyfriend.”

“I mean—that’s why I asked!” Minho exclaims, tiny fist coming to punch the strong shoulder in front of him.

Despite the gesture, Chan laughs, his own hand coming to clasp Minho’s wrist in a soft cradle. “I know, darling. I wanted to ask you out properly this morning, you know.”

“Really?” he breathes, lets himself be pulled by the wrist into Chan, pushing him against the wood of his front door.

“Hm. I thought about it while getting you breakfast, and figured it would be the right timing. I don’t know. But you got me distracted.”

“You were gonna ask me out on a random Thursday morning? No confession, no grand gesture, nothing?” Minho teases, but he can’t help the besotted grin that overtakes him, pushing at his cheeks with the force of his happiness.

“I don’t think that’s your style, baby,” Chan replies easily, and Minho doesn’t bother telling him he’s one hundred percent right. He drops Minho’s wrist to caress his jaw, thumb swiping across the high of his cheekbone. “Plus, I’d already caught Jisung staring. I wasn’t gonna embarrass you even more, now, was I?”

Now that manages to draw a furious blush onto Minho’s cheeks—and Chan only chuckles at the sight, pressing a quick peck on the cheek under his thumb before pulling away. “You saw them?”

“Yeah. I told you, darling. Let them see.” They’ll know you’re mine, and I’m yours.

Minho tucks his face in the crook of Chan’s shoulder, winding his arms around his neck in a tight embrace. “I can’t believe you.”

“Sorry about that.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Anyway. Are you ready for my confession, now?”

“No. I don’t want to hear it.” It’s a lie—it’s just that with how much Minho is already blushing, he doesn’t know what kind of effect that would have on him. As though he hasn’t had Chan crying and begging for his touch already—but this is different, this is them, the core of it, the part that matters most.

A hand is carding through the strands of hair at the back of his head. “Minho.” It’s so sweet, the way Chan says his name. “I really, really like you. I’m obsessed with you, darling. I love what we have, what you make me feel, the person you are. Even when you’re being my boss.”

“You get off on that,” he can’t help but point out, and Chan shakes in his arms with his laughter.

“Maybe I do, yeah. But I love everything else, too. Everything about you.” Nails scratch gently at his scalp. “Minho, baby. Look at me?”

It’s a feat to pull away from the warmth of Chan’s body, but he does so regardless, catching the way Chan’s smile hasn’t faded one bit—it just got quieter, more intimate. For Minho’s eyes only.

“Will you be my boyfriend?” he asks, but can’t even finish the sentence before bursting into tiny giggles—and it’s contagious, because Minho follows suit, swatting at his shoulder again.

“God, yes, I’ll be your stupid boyfriend, Channie,” he groans. “Like I wasn’t fucking obvious with how much I want you.”

“You want me?” Chan teases.

“Yeah,” he says.

“All of me?”

Minho nods. “All of you.”

The pleased expression taking over Chan’s face is delightful—it’s sexy, too, with the way it speaks of confidence, of trust in what they have, what they’re building.

When they kiss, Minho hums into it, unbelievably content, letting his hands roam as Chan’s fingers latch onto his hair. It’s slow, heavy with meaning, but starts growing hungrier slowly—Minho’s teeth latching onto Chan’s bottom lip, a quiet sigh, Chan’s tongue licking into his mouth. The hands in his hair slowly slide down, one remaining at the back of his neck while the other continues further down, pressing them closer by pulling Minho in at the small of his back.

Minho moans softly, tightening his arms back around Chan’s neck, scratching his nails at the skin of his scalp and the skin peeking from the collar of his shirt. He could be doing this for hours—savouring him, the taste of his mouth, the salt of his skin; the way the solid frame of his body burns hot against his, the way he is so incredibly sensitive at every touch Minho offers him.

But there’s something in this kiss, in where it leads, that is different from usual—there is none of the urgency to rush things Minho had felt countless times, nor the desire to assert his control and watch Chan fall to his knees under its weight. And while that remains incredible—this is something else, something unraveling in his chest, making him feel just a touch more open, willing and wonderfully exposed, and for the first time, maybe, not scared at the thought.

A leg slots itself between his thighs, and the contact makes him jolt, a small cry escaping his throat. Chan smiles into their kiss, detaching their lips to trail kisses down Minho’s neck. “What do you want, darling?”

He chases the friction against his cock with slow, unhurried thrusts, something that only sets his skin ablaze and his nerves on the edge without hurtling towards desperation—this has to last, Minho will make it last. “I want you inside,” he exhales, groans when he feels Chan suck at the skin behind his ear, shuddering against him.

“Fuck,” Chan gasps, comes up to kiss him again, whining into it. “Minho, are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he nods. Frames Chan’s face with his hands, looks right into his eyes. “I want you to fuck me, baby. Would you like that, Channie?”

Another whimper catches in Chan’s throat, who nods slowly, eyes turning bleary and glazed over with lust with every passing second. But there’s more than just desire there, too—Minho sees it in the depth of that look, the well of feelings hiding in plain sight, all for him to take and indulge in.

Minho kisses him again, leisured, pliant, hips shifting once more, feeling Chan’s own hard length pushing against his hip. A hand comes sliding down his chest, thumb flicking his nipple and Minho keens, sucking at Chan’s tongue as he repeats the motion gently.

He feels—so good. So loved. So very fragile and tender, flesh and bones exposed to the air, yet so assuredly safe and taken care of, like nothing could go wrong in this embrace, in those arms. He can only hope Chan feels the same—has an inkling he does, too.

He melts, and he falls. Minho falls, and falls, and falls.

⊹₊⟡⋆

Service isn’t until five thirty in the afternoon. Usually, Minho will slide in through the back door of the kitchen just before nine in the morning.

On most days, he is the first one there. Lately, Chan will be with him, too, as they tend to spend the night together more often than not, and, well. It just works out that way, anyway.

“Morning, Lix,” Chan says, dimple on display as they make their way inside from the back one morning. Minho is staring, because Chan is wearing glasses, thin-rimmed and elegant, and he never wears glasses, so this is new—this is ridiculously sexy, and Minho made sure to let him know thoroughly just how much he enjoys it before they left the apartment this morning.

He’s kind of tempted to do it again.

“Hey, Chris,” Felix smiles. “I have something for you.”

“Oh?” Eyebrows raised, he turns to look at Minho with inquisitive eyes—but Minho doesn’t know, either, so he just shrugs, and continues his staring. “Something for me?”

“I’ve finally found the perfect match for the cherry jam. It’s—I think it’s really good. Jisung’s obsessed, if you must know, but he’s dating me, so he’s a bit biased.”

Ah, right. The cherries. The trigger to Minho’s slow descent into Chan-induced madness. How could he forget? “Do you think it’d make for a new menu item?”

“Maybe not now,” Felix concedes. “But it could be like a seasonal dessert in the spring? I’d let you decide. But—here.”

He slides a plate towards them—a delicate puff pastry sits in the middle, torn at its centre where a piece of cheeses melts over the sides. Brie, it looks like, Minho thinks. Roasted nuts decorate the plate around it, and smeared on top, a bright red marmalade-like jam and a swirl of what looks like honey, gold and shimmering.

“Wow,” Chan says, proud. “That’s amazing, Lixie.”

“Don’t say that before you try it, come on,” he pushes a spoon in Chan’s waiting hand. “You should have a bite too, hyung,” he adds, turning his gaze to Minho.

“Yeah, babe,” his boyfriend quips next to him. He winks. “You might find yourself enjoying it more than you’d think.”

Minho rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother answering either of them—only accepts the spoon Felix hands him in silence, lets Chan take a bite before doing so himself.

The taste is rich, but not overpowering—the cheese has a soft, buttery taste, melting in his mouth and contrasting nicely with the flakiness of the pastry underneath and the crunch of the nuts. The jam is more sweet than it is tart, and the honey keeps it balanced and smooth on his tongue.

It’s masterfully done. Simply proof of Felix’s talent, of course—but Minho has to say he is a little impressed.

“Oh, fuck,” Chan exclaims next to him, agreeable surprise on his features. “This is amazing, Felix.”

“Yeah?”

“Dude, of course! Don’t bother waiting until the spring—Minho, what do you think? That belongs on the menu, right?”

Minho scoops a tiny piece of the cherry marmalade, brings it into his mouth on its own. Sugar on his tongue, red smearing against his lips. He licks at it, and doesn’t even mind the taste that much. “You’ve outdone yourself, Felix,” he offers his junior, who beams at him at the praise.

“Really? It’s that good?”

“No wonder Jisungie can’t get enough,” Minho adds with a smirk. “But, seriously. It’s really good. You managed to convince me, after all.”

“Wow. Thanks, Minho, really,” Felix blushes, averting his gaze down from the weight of the praise. “That means a lot.”

“Let us know what you need to make these,” Chan tells him, eyes intent as he rattles off. “If there’s any ingredients you think are missing, just tell me. We’ll adjust deliveries accordingly, once you give us a detailed rundown of what the recipe needs, yeah?”

Felix preens, freckles nearly eclipsed by the strength of his blush. Minho’s pride, shining bright. “Sure thing, yeah. I’ll clean up now, but we can discuss that later?”

“‘Course, buddy.” Chan catches Minho’s hand and pulls him towards the hall to their lockers. “We’ll be right back!”

As soon as they make it out of the kitchen, Minho feels Chan pull him into his chest—catching him with a secure hand on his side, before leaning in to kiss him, tongue peeking to swipe at his top lip. The glasses knock against their noses, and it’s the most perfect kiss nonetheless.

When they part, Minho blinks, ears on fire. “What was that for?”

“You had some cherry jam left on there,” Chan murmurs, thumb coming up to stroke at the corner of his lips, but he’s smirking, and Minho can’t tell if he’s serious on not.

He scoffs, but it’s such a soft sound that it sounds more like a quiet chuckle. “Yeah, sure. Come on, now, we have work to do.”

Fingers interlace with his, squeezing once. Minho watches the most beautiful smile overtake Chan’s face, dimples digging deep in his cheeks. A peck on the back of his hand. Minho’s heart grows, and grows, and never stops falling.

Chan’s voice. Minho’s favourite voice. “Showtime, baby.”

⊹₊⟡⋆