Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Okhema was beautiful. An idyllic city far prettier than a simple village boy like Phainon could ever imagine. The sunkissed stone path beneath Phainon’s worn-out sneakers seemed to stretch on as far ahead as his eyes could see.

Everywhere he looked, there was an endless offering of restaurants, art galleries, and antique stores. He shielded his eyes from the glaring morning sunlight and looked to the blue ocean that abutted the edge of this magnificent, coastal city.

Phainon didn’t deserve to be here.

A guy attending an advanced culinary program only by the grace of a scholarship couldn’t afford a plane ticket to Okhema. He was here solely because Cyrene had saved up her job wages for six months to surprise him with the ticket for his twenty-first birthday. Phainon tried to convince his childhood friend to take back her gift, or use it on herself, but the stubborn look in Cyrene’s eyes had him shutting up within an instant.

“It’s your birthday gift!” she’d insisted to him and stomped her foot with emphasis. “Okhema is the culinary capital of Amphoreus. Enjoy yourself, Phainon! Learn something there and please, whatever you do, do not embarrass yourself or me with those terrible clothes of yours. I’ll even pack your suitcase myself—”

Phainon still didn’t understand Cyrene’s beef with his fashion sense. Phainon’s trusty yellow hoodie had been with him since high school. There were only a few holes at the hem that weren’t that noticeable. Cyrene might find the shade atrocious but not everyone could have taste. Phainon simply enjoyed comfort and an unusual style.

Yellow was a bold color. It gave him the confidence boost he needed to take a step forward in an incredible place like this. The wheels of his rolling suitcase squeaked as he tugged it along behind him on the stone path. Phainon fumbled for the phone in his pocket and lifted it up.

Only a photo could capture the sight before him that he’d never be able to adequately describe to another himself. He sent it off in a text to Cyrene and then consulted a digital map of the bustling city.

His vacation here would only last two days. The few weeks of summer break allotted to the graduate students had come and almost entirely gone. He’d already spent most of it at his parents’ house, which meant that every minute on this last-minute trip to Okhema mattered. Especially if Phainon wanted to return to the Grove with impressive stories to tell.

He wanted to see the envious look on Mydei’s face when Phainon regaled his classmate with tales about the best-tasting pastries to be found in all of Amphoreus.

Okhema was that place. This dreamy capital was where all aspiring pastry chefs, like Phainon, wanted to live and work. Any pastry chef who wanted to be someone aimed to end up here eventually. That’s why he couldn’t squander the miracle that Cyrene had given to him.

After dropping off his belongings at the hotel, Phainon explored the main streets with all the enthusiasm of a wide-eyed tourist. Locals sat at round tables in front of cafés, conversing while sipping coffee and glancing, with interest, at the handsome young man who stopped them with questions about their favorite places to eat.

Anyone who traveled around as much as Phainon did knew the best places to visit would be the ones recommended by locals, not the ones listed on the official travel brochures. Two elderly women, perched outside the Marmoreal café, were charmed by Phainon’s dazzling, youthful grin. They rewarded his curiosity by telling him about a well-kept secret in Okhema.

There was a famous bakery, they confided in him, that was known amongst the locals called the Seventh Sage. It was highly regarded and revered for the bold menu that changed every week at the elusive owner’s whim.

“Don’t worry though, young man. There’s always the usual butter croissants available for tourists,” the elder told him, laughing along with her friend, “if you can’t stomach the unique things in the big city, that is.”

For a pastry student, the temptation to discover a unique dessert was nigh impossible to resist.

“Oh, I can stomach it,” Phainon asserted with full confidence. He thumped his chest with pride. “I’m known as the final boss of the Grove. There’s no tasting challenge I can’t overcome.”

The elderly woman’s directions led him to a quiet street nestled in the back alleyways of the capital. Removed from the hustle and bustle of the main street, there were less tourists here and far more locals who passed by the attractive storefronts. Phainon admired the quaint appearances of the book shop and the herbal apothecary he passed by. It suited the elegant atmosphere of this street tucked away like a hidden gem.

Eventually, Phainon came to a stop. A carved wooden sign hung over a bakery’s double doors, spelling out Seventh Sage in looped letters. The doors had been left propped open. An alluring fragrance of freshly-baked pastry, combined with the freshness of citrus, coaxed a stunned Phainon closer.

Phainon wandered in. The bakery’s interior was as pretty as its front: dark wooden floors matched the doors and the round tables situated inside and out. The warm, early day sunlight spilling through the windows cast a charming glow over the marble countertop and the glass displays.

Rows and rows of succulent desserts seen behind the glass made Phainon’s mouth water. He cast a quick glance around him. Aside from the single worker bustling behind the counter, there was only one other person inside the bakery.

Phainon’s footsteps faltered in surprise. He couldn’t help but stare at the gentleman who was seated alone at a table. The sunlight illuminated the sharp curves of an otherworldly, beautiful face. All thoughts of pastries were forgotten as Phainon took in the mesmerizing sight.

The strands of the man’s emerald hair spilled over one shoulder and were tamed only by the loop of a black ribbon. A single ruby earring dangled from the curve of his right ear. Dressed neatly in a white, long-sleeved shirt and brown vest, he looked as if he’d walked right out of a romantic painting.

There was only one thing that was out of place in Phainon’s imagination. The man’s sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and revealed the ink of an intricate tattoo decorating his right arm. An alluring beauty possessed the hard edge of modernity— an intoxicating combination.

The man was currently preoccupied with the book in his hand. A well-loved novel, Phainon suspected, judging by the cracks in its spine and an assortment of colorful notes tucked in between the pages. If the man noticed Phainon’s regard, he showed no sign of it. The handsome customer leisurely flipped through the novel’s pages as he lifted up a cup of steaming coffee to his lips.

The urge to snap a photo of the beautiful stranger made his fingers twitch. Cyrene would never believe Phainon’s description of him. Thinking better of it, Phainon turned away before he could do something impolite.

“How can I help you, sir?” The young woman behind the counter noticed him. Twintails of a vivid pink framed a lovely, friendly face. The woman smiled and gestured to the display case. “Is there anything you’d like to try?”

“All of it, if I could.”

Phainon leaned down to inspect the pastries. At a glance, he could appreciate the expert lamination of the golden croissants tucked on their porcelain plates, and the rich color of a lemon curd galaktoboureko as it winked at him invitingly.

“That can always be arranged, if you like!” the worker teased him.

“You’d have to roll me out of here afterwards if I gave in to that kind of temptation.” Phainon’s robust laugh filled the air between them. “I’d like to try a bite of the raspberry and honey tart I see there— yeah, that one. That looks amazing.”

As the young woman cut a small piece of the tart for him to try, Phainon read the name tag pinned to her apron: Hyacine. She looked to be nearly the same age as him, if not a year or two older. There was vast experience in her movements as Hyacine placed the portion of tart on a small sampler plate and handed it over to him across the counter.

“Here you are.”

Phainon’s throat went dry with anticipation as the enticing scent reached his nose. Raspberry and honey was not an unusual combination in desserts, but a rare one in comparison to its counterparts of blueberry and strawberry. He took a bite of the tart and let it rest on his tongue for several moments— a habit ingrained into him as a pastry student.

Only in this way could he pick apart the complex composition that made up such a delicious treat. His eyes fluttered closed in bliss as the flavors settled in his mouth.

“Incredible… the raspberry is just tart enough to punch through the sweetness of the honey. The honey isn’t too sweet, either. It’s far more delicate, somehow. I’m guessing you used acacia honey for it, maybe, or something floral.”

Behind him, the seated gentleman lowered his book. His sharp gaze was immediately filled with interest.

Phainon opened his eyes and took another bite. He chewed slowly to buy time to gather his thoughts. “The pâte sucrée is unreal,” he praised Hyacine enthusiastically. “You blind-baked it with weights, right?”

Hyacine shot a glance beyond Phainon’s shoulders. Instead of answering, she bowed her head in deference to a smooth, dulcet voice that cut through the cozy atmosphere.

“You have a refined palate. That is an unexpected, yet welcome surprise.”

Phainon whipped around in an instant, visibly startled. The speaker was the same elegant man he’d spotted before. Only now, the beauty’s attention was fixated wholly on him, instead of the book placed on the table.

A flush rose to Phainon’s face. “Oh, I… uh—”

“What else have you detected? Tell me.”

Phainon couldn’t say no to the intensity of the man’s gaze. It was filled with a fascination that made Phainon feel weak in the knees. The sudden desire to impress this stranger made Phainon’s mouth move quicker than his brain.

He stabbed the small fork into the remaining piece of the tart and lifted it up. “The layering in the curd,” Phainon pointed out to him obediently. As if reciting his critique in front of his culinary professor, Aglaea, he spoke his thoughts aloud with care. “It looks like whipped cream was folded in at the end of the process to make it that airy. It’s not the usual way we’re taught, but I like it.”

Phainon popped the tart in his mouth and chewed on it deliciously. Approval flickered in the stranger’s eyes.

“Indeed, you are correct. Would you like to join me?”

The invitation took Phainon aback. He coughed as the tart momentarily slid down the wrong pipe. “Oh— yes, I’d love to,” he replied hoarsely, in between coughs. “Sounds g-good.”

“Hyacine,” the man called out, “bring the mastiha baklava from the back, if you would.”

“Of course! I’ll be back in a second.”

The worker disappeared into the back area of the bakery without a single moment’s hesitation. At that instant, Phainon connected several dots.

“You’re not just a customer here, are you?” Phainon asked the man, his throat still dry.

The other’s ethereal appearance was paired with a keen intelligence that missed nothing of Phainon’s awkwardness as he approached him. The feet of the chair scraped noisily against wood as Phainon dragged it out. He sank down into the opposite seat, his blue eyes fixed on the man’s serene expression.

The other answered, “If I disabuse you of that notion, will it affect your objective opinion?”

Phainon’s reply was immediate. “Not at all!”

The man smiled. A subtle curve of his lips that was so fleeting that Phainon feared he’d only imagined it. Except, there was nothing false about the way his heart picked up speed at the sight.

“Excellent. I am not a customer here, as you wisely noted, but rather someone who works here.”

“Oh,” Phainon responded, dumbly. It was hard to concentrate on the other’s words when the speaker was this pretty.

“If you are so inclined, I would like it if you could taste something not on the menu yet.”

On the heels of the man’s words, Hyacine returned with a tray in her hands. Phainon’s astonishment grew.

This was no ordinary baklava. The Okhema delight had been built with a foreign mille feuille pastry in mind: over thirty layers of a baklava had been reduced down to three. Ultra thin layers of phyllo pastry were interspersed with thicker layers of mastiha cream and crunchy praline. Phainon was familiar with the ingredient: native to Okhema, mastiha was a staple of the dessert culture here.

The mysterious man took another sip of his coffee. “I suspect you’ve never seen this before, have you?”

“It’s a work of art,” Phainon said in awe. “You made this?”

“It is an experiment of sorts. I don’t usually offer this to customers as it’s too subtle to be appreciated by anyone in a rush.”

“I see. Before I taste this, I was wondering if I could have a drink to go with it?”

Phainon looked to Hyacine, who nodded politely. “Just say the word and I’ll have it right out,” she told him. Her delighted gaze danced back and forth eagerly between him and her fellow employee.

“Great.” Phainon glanced at the cup of coffee held by the attractive baker. “What about an iced caramel macchiato—”

“Absolutely not.” The man frowned. Repulsion was clear in his gaze. “That macchiato’s going to pierce holes in every flavor I built.”

Phainon’s eyebrows shot up. “What would you recommend then?”

The other sighed deeply. He lifted a hand and waved his fingers casually in Hyacine’s direction. “Hyacine, a cup of mountain tea will do. Add lemon, if the gentleman is receptive to it.”

At Hyacine’s glance, Phainon smiled at her in a cheerful manner. “Lemon sounds wonderful, thanks. A splash of honey, too!”

“One for you, too, sir?”

“Yes, no honey.”

Hyacine left the two of them alone without another word. She hadn’t bat an eyelash at the man’s authoritative manner, nor at any of his abrupt commands that were uttered so naturally. Phainon began to suspect that the baker seated across from him was no ordinary employee in this place. He had to be Hyacine’s senior, at the very least.

“I’m afraid we haven’t yet been introduced,” Phainon pointed out. He picked up the small silver fork placed beside the plate and twirled it languidly between his fingers. “Might I know the name of the one who has an aversion to strong espresso with mastiha?”

“If you already knew it would clash with the flavor, then why order it?”

“It’s my comfort drink. No different than ordering hot chocolate on a rainy day.”

The man seated across from him sent an ironic glance at the window, where sunlight streamed in, so bright and unyielding. “You may call me Anaxagoras.”

“That’s a pretty name, Anaxa.”

“Anaxagoras,” the other emphasized.

Phainon ignored the curt tone. The euphoria he felt at having a name placed to a bewitching stranger made him feel too giddy to pay attention to it. “If I’m not mistaken, I’m picking up on orange blossom in this,” he said, and indicated the glaze drizzled on top of the baklava. “You must have a thing for flowers.”

“I have a thing for those who take care with their words.”

Anaxa reached for a pen resting beside the book he’d been reading earlier. As Anaxa opened it and turned to a page in the middle, Phainon realized his error in judgment. It wasn’t a novel at all. Those were handwritten recipes scrawled upon the worn pages. Notes filled up the margins in between, as if the recipes written down were a continual work in progress.

“What is your name?” Anaxa’s gaze settled curiously on Phainon’s face.

Phainon’s mind hit a blank. “I… forgot.”

Anaxa paused, confusion forming a line between his brows. “What?”

“I mean…”

Feeling sheepish, Phainon told himself to concentrate on the situation at hand and not on how attractive Anaxa looked even when displeased. Who could blame him for forgetting facts in front of a pretty face? As much as he wanted to be honest, Phainon had a feeling Anaxa wouldn’t appreciate hearing that particular truth.

“I was so excited about tasting this creation that it slipped my mind momentarily,” Phainon lied smoothly. “The name’s Phainon. I’m from Aedes Elysiae. Oh, actually, it’s alright if you’ve never heard of it before. It’s a small village no one’s ever heard of, honestly.”

Anaxa’s voice was soft. “Phainon,” he repeated.

Phainon would waste no more time. Anaxa had invited him to the table for the sake of sampling the dessert, nothing more. Especially not for the personal reason of getting to know him better. As much as Phainon wished that were the case, he wasn’t delusional.

He cut a sample piece of the baklava, slicing cleanly through the crisp layers, and lifted it to his lips. If he wanted to impress Anaxa, even in the smallest way he could as an appreciative customer, he had to do his best and focus.

He chewed slowly, the better to pick apart the textures and flavors that hit his tongue. “The mastiha cream is nicely stabilized. It’s got a silky feel, no gumminess, and the flavor’s so clean. The nutty layer is crunchy and adds the right oomph of texture along with the cream.”

Phainon savored the mouthful for a moment longer, then swallowed. He cut another piece to bite into as Anaxa scribbled something onto the page.

Phainon continued, “The honey syrup you used is just enough, too. It wasn’t too much, otherwise soaking the whole thing would’ve made it all soggy. Mastiha’s got a restrained sweetness that’s… really hard to pull off. I don’t think I could do it myself.” When Phainon lifted his gaze, his cheeks had noticeably reddened with a flush. “Honestly, it’s kind of genius.”

Anaxa’s attention was solely fixed on him. He tapped the end of the pen against his cheek and smiled faintly. “Kind of?”

Phainon set the fork down beside the plate. He was tempted to polish off the dessert entirely but wouldn’t, not without Anaxa’s permission. “I wasn’t intending on trying to inflate your ego, but yeah, it’s a pretty brilliant creation.”

Hyacine returned to the table with two steaming cups of the mountain tea. As she placed them carefully on the table, one in front of Phainon and the other in front of Anaxa, Phainon took the cup with a smile of gratitude.

“This smells incredible, Hyacine, thank you.”

“No problem. If you two need anything else, I’ll be in the back.”

Phainon raised the cup and blew gently across the tea’s hot surface. Across from him, Anaxa observed the young man’s face with a quiet pleasure. “Not bad,” Anaxa murmured, after Hyacine had quietly retreated.

Phainon teased, “The tea, or my review?”

“...Both, surprisingly.”

Phainon’s heart flipped over in his chest. “I didn’t mean to dissect it like a midterm, by the way. It’s kind of a habit I’ve picked up, for better or for worse.”

“I don’t mind. It was a helpful critique.”

Phainon watched as Anaxa’s expression turned thoughtful. The baker wrote in a few more notes into the book, crossing out lines here and there and replacing them with new ideas. Stunned, Phainon’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Are you… actually writing what I said down?”

“I don't waste useful data,” Anaxa replied dryly, keeping his attention on the page. “You have a trained palate. I may as well take advantage of it.”

“How did you know?”

“It’s rather easy to discern, Phainon. Most people would simply say ‘delicious!’ and move on.”

“Oh…” Phainon mumbled, somewhat embarrassed at having even asked.

He sipped at the tea and was pleasantly rewarded by the taste. Anaxa had been right, of course. The herbal flavor of the mountain tea complimented the sweetness of the mastiha cream lingering on his tongue. The cloying caramel of the macchiato he wanted would’ve been a huge mistake.

“I mean, it makes sense,” Phainon murmured. “I am a pastry student. Top ten in my class, actually.”

Without looking up, Anaxa drawled, “Only ten?”

Phainon lowered his cup and regarded the baker with a sly smile. “I was being modest for the sake of politeness. I could’ve easily said the top three.”

At last, Anaxa seemed content with the notes he’d made. He set the pen back on the table and leaned back in his chair. The cup had cooled enough to his satisfaction as Anaxa brought it to his mouth to savor in a long sip.

“Are you always this talkative?” Anaxa questioned him, amused.

“I…”

Yes would be the honest truth. A day didn’t go by without Mydei scolding him for not ‘shutting the hell up’ even when they were supposed to be working. Phainon dismissed those thoughts with a shake of his head and grinned.

“Only when I like the company this much,” he told Anaxa.

He couldn’t stop staring at the beauty of Anaxa’s slow-dawning smile. It only enhanced the vibrant hue of Anaxa’s crystalline gaze. If Phainon had felt braver, he would’ve voiced aloud his curiosity about the patch of fabric that concealed one of Anaxa’s eyes from his view.

He didn’t. Such a question would be impolite to ask between strangers. His mother had taught him better courtesy than that.

“You’ve given me something useful today, Phainon. I will not forget your generosity.”

Anaxa’s hands were so much smaller than his own. They were long fingered, yet delicate looking, as if holding onto the tea cup was the most weight it could bear. Phainon yearned to take one and test its strength out for himself.

Instead, he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, and smiled back at his gorgeous companion. “Something useful, huh? Guess that makes me a valuable resource for you. Shouldn’t you be asking for my number now?”

Anaxa remained impressively calm. His expression was unreadable. “Should I?”

Phainon could imagine the disgust on Cyrene’s face if she learned he hadn’t taken a bold chance like this. “Well, think about it this way,” he said slowly. “If you ever need more insight, I’m available for reviews. Only, it’s very exclusive. It's just by invitation, you see.”

“You mean your unsolicited opinions?” Unbothered, Anaxa took another deliberate sip of tea.

Phainon had kept his expectations low. The only shots guaranteed to miss were the ones not taken. “So, that’s a no on the number?”

For a long moment, Anaxa stayed silent. Hope stirred in Phainon’s chest.

Only to be quelled as Anaxa spoke again. “I don’t give my number to strangers… even ones who prove to be as charming as you.”

“Ah, I see.”

It was impossible to keep the entirety of Phainon’s disappointment out of his voice. He tried his best, though, forcing himself to keep smiling as he shrugged his shoulders and attempted to play it off.

“Still, I had fun. It’s not every day that I get to taste a culinary masterpiece. Thank you for that.”

“Phainon.”

“Hmm?”

“This shouldn’t be the only dessert you taste.” At Phainon’s surprised look, Anaxa gestured to the display at the front of the bakery. “You came here with the original intention to buy, did you not? You may choose what you like and take it home with you. On the house— an equivalent exchange for the gift you’ve given me.”

Phainon rose up reluctantly from his seat. He could sense a farewell underlying Anaxa’s polite words. Even if Phainon wanted to decline the offer, the sooner the better so he could leave and nurse his wounded pride, he’d be an absolute idiot to reject it.

He did not think Anaxa would accept a refusal, either.

“If I wanted to taste this kind of genius again,” Phainon asked carefully, “could I come back here tomorrow?”

A heaviness in the air made Phainon breathless as he locked gazes with Anaxa once more. A rosy pink bloomed upon Anaxa’s pale cheeks.

“You don’t give up, do you?”

“A tourist’s bold privilege,” Phainon admitted to him. A disarming smile sprung to his lips. “Unfortunately, I’ve got to head home tomorrow afternoon. This would be my only chance to meet you again.”

A trace of regret flickered in Anaxa’s expression. “I’m afraid the bakery will be closed tomorrow, as Hyacine and I will be traveling.”

“Ah, can’t be helped, I guess.” Fate truly wasn’t on his side it seemed. Phainon shoved his hands into his hoodie’s front pocket and gave Anaxa a small, yet genuine smile. “Then I’ll happily take those desserts home today as a souvenir.”

Hyacine, in an obvious effort not to disturb them, had kept herself hidden away in the back. It was Anaxa who got to his feet in a graceful manner and strode over to the bakery’s counter. He slipped behind it, Phainon’s gaze on him lingering all the while.

Anaxa’s delicate hands opened a white pastry box. “Pick what you like.”

Phainon could have taken his time to choose. He could have analyzed each and every one of the desserts in turn, mindful of his own preferences and those of his friends, who would be overjoyed to try anything from a bakery of this prestige. Instead, he chose something else.

“I want your favorites,” Phainon replied, not looking away from Anaxa’s face. “Pick for me.”

Anaxa shot him a measuring glance. The tension Phainon feared he’d only imagined before returned in full glory as Anaxa’s eyelashes fluttered once. Then, Phainon was rewarded with the sight of the beautiful man as he chose the treats for Phainon with a well-practiced judgement.

In the end, it didn’t matter what ended up inside the box. The vision of Anaxa’s loveliness would linger in his mind for far longer than the dessert would stay in his stomach. The gleam of Anaxa’s vibrant hair, the jauntiness of the blue ribbon tied at his neck— these were the details that Phainon wanted to keep for himself as long as he possibly could.

When, at last, Anaxa passed the closed box to Phainon over the counter, Phainon felt as if he wanted to cling onto this moment forever and never let it go. Returning to Okhema after tomorrow would be impossible for someone like him. Not unless he graduated from the Grove with flying colors first.

Phainon didn’t want to leave. Reluctance gripped every atom of his body as he held onto the box and forced a smile on his face. “Well,” he began awkwardly, “thanks for the dessert, Anaxa. And the, uh, company… I had a blast.”

“Anaxagoras,” Anaxa corrected. His calm demeanor did not crack. He reached for the stack of paper napkins hidden beneath the counter and withdrew one. “Come here.”

Phainon blinked. “What?”

“Lean down. I won’t ask twice.”

Confused, Phainon leaned over the counter as bidden. He was even more surprised when he felt the light clasp of Anaxa’s hand as it cupped his cheek. Phainon’s breathing quickened as Anaxa blotted the napkin against the corner of his lips. Phainon hadn’t even noticed the smear of cream that had been left over from the tasting.

Anaxa wiped it away perfunctorily. For several passing moments, Phainon was treated to an up close view of the beautiful baker. The attractive length of Anaxa’s eyelashes were just as unfair as his perfectly-shaped, thin lips.

How could a man like this be so stunning? Tucked away in a bakery in the back streets of Okhema, he was as much of a guarded secret as the bakery itself was.

“Thank you for the review,” Anaxa spoke, his voice soft. He lowered the napkin but his hand lingered on Phainon’s face. His fingertips lightly stroked the curve of Phainon’s cheek.

It was a fleeting touch lasting no longer than several seconds, yet Phainon felt its aftermath like a burning brand etched into his skin. “You're…” His voice faltered. A tidal wave of heat rushed into his face. “Y-You're welcome, sir.”

The respectful title came out instinctively. It shocked Phainon, but it shook Anaxa even more to hear. Phainon’s eyes widened as a noticeable blush rippled across the bridge of Anaxa’s nose and both his cheeks.

Anaxa’s hand fluttered in front of his face. Flustered, he balled up the used napkin in his fist and tossed it into the bin below abruptly. “Take the opportunity to explore more of the capital while you’re here, Phainon,” he said as he momentarily avoided Phainon’s gaze. “You can attain valuable experience in Okhema. It is a worthwhile adventure for a student like you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Anaxa’s reddened face deepened in shade. “Enough of that. Go.”

Phainon’s satisfaction was probably hard for Anaxa to look at. He could sense the joy within himself as it radiated out of his very being. Phainon’s grin stretched from ear to ear as he savored the vision of Anaxa doing his best to maintain his composure… and failing.

The sting of rejection he once felt lessened. Phainon’s feelings were not completely unrequited after all. He pressed the advantage. Clutching the box reverently in his hands, Phainon spoke up to Anaxa in a confident voice.

“Someday… no, one day, after I’ve made a name for myself, I will come back here. Not as a customer, but as someone worthy of you and your genius. I want to collaborate with you.”

Anaxa had calmed down, his expression turning thoughtful as he met Phainon’s ardent look. Phainon could not read the emotions that flickered behind Anaxa’s gaze but he felt heartened by the small, slightly challenging, smile that appeared on Anaxa’s lips.

“Oh? Then I’ll hold you to that.”

Emboldened by Anaxa’s approval, Phainon grinned even wider. “You should know that I’m the type to follow through, no matter what. Top three. Don’t forget that.”

“I’ll only accept the top one,” Anaxa replied, his eyelashes lowering. “You must be the best, Phainon. Anything less is not good enough to meet me here.”

A lofty goal happened to be Phainon’s favorite kind to pursue. He tucked it inside of his heart, wrapped his ambition around it, and saluted Anaxa’s decree with an obedient nod.

“See you again, Anaxagoras.”

Every step Phainon took away from the bakery felt bittersweet. Like a dream nearing its end, he wished he could clutch on to the remnants and stay asleep. The sunlight had settled into the rosy glow of late afternoon. The foot traffic of locals had picked up in intensity on the streets outside, as couples sought out their picks for an early dinner together.

Outside the bakery, Phainon couldn’t help himself and looked back over his shoulder. One final glance at the window took in the sight of Anaxa as he stood behind the counter. Hyacine had returned in Phainon’s absence, her hair bouncing jovially around her face as she took up Anaxa’s attention with enthusiasm.

Phainon could not hear their conversation but the blush lingering on Anaxa’s face was all the confirmation he needed. They were talking about him.

His resolve hardened even more. When Phainon finally walked away, it was with the sight of Anaxa having returned to the table, his elegant fingers running over the cover of his recipe book fondly, that lingered the longest inside of his mind.

Chapter Text

An undercurrent of noise made the kitchen feel alive. The noisy clatter of spatulas scraping out dough from bowls, stand mixers whirring as they creamed butter into a smooth consistency, and the slam of oven doors as the bakers trusted their precious creations to its heat— this, to Phainon, was the heartbeat of the Grove.

The students of the elite culinary program worked diligently in small groups. Two to three per baking station, they called out instructions to one another as they worked together in a familiar rhythm. Flour dusted the aprons of hard-working bakers. Sugar was everywhere, portioned out in precise measuring cups and spilled in grainy messes upon the working countertops.

Phainon loved it. Just as much as he loved the fragrant scent of butter in the air, and the soft feeling of pastry dough as he molded it into a ball beneath his hand.

The assignment given to the students today was to make a flawless pâte sablée: a tart shell made of shortbread and baked to a golden perfection. It could be filled with any fruit they chose, so long as the shell itself passed their instructor Aglaea’s high standard.

He shot a glance at the front of the kitchen. The blonde woman was seated at the forefront, a prominent figure holding a cup of steaming black coffee in her hand, as she observed the students’ progress. Although always available for a consultation, most were too intimidated by Aglaea to ask for an early judgement.

Phainon, included. If ever he needed advice from Aglaea, it’d be Castorice he’d toss in her direction to soften the mentor up. No one, not even the stoic Aglaea, could refuse Cas’s luminous puppy look and soft, pleading voice whenever she asked a question.

Across the counter, one of Phainon’s groupmates flattened out his dough with the palm of his hand. Mydei had attended the Grove for as long as Phainon and Castorice had. His sunset hair was pinned back by his ears, keeping the wild strands away from his eyes as he shaped the shell to its ideal dimensions.

“Are you aiming to self-sabotage again, golden boy?” Mydei taunted Phainon, smirking as Phainon pinched a mound of dough between his fingertips to test its sturdiness. “That looks like one kneading away from being shortbread soup, not a shell.”

“Piss off. Better for it to be soft than overworked and dry.”

“The deliverer of Aedes Elysiae should be more meticulous in his work. How will your big dream come true if you can’t even pay attention in class?”

“Even with half— no, a quarter— of my attention, mine will turn out better than yours.” Phainon lifted his head and smiled crookedly. “Our track record proves it. Don’t you recall? Phainon: 3, Mydei: 1.”

Mydei rolled his eyes. “I only let you win the last one out of pity.”

“Keep telling yourself that, nepo baby.”

The three of them had known each other for so long that the bickering between them served to bolster Phainon’s spirits, rather than lower them. Having both Mydei and Castorice by his side was comforting. Any weak points that Phainon possessed, as few as they were, were more than made up for by Mydei’s skillful instinct and Castorice’s steady reliability.

The trio was a formidable team. The top three in all of the Grove that the rest of the students openly admired… and envied.

Phainon gently rubbed more butter into the crust with a practiced flick of his wrist. Beside him, Castorice focused intently on building her own pastry shell. She held her scraper as steady as possible as she coaxed her dough to come neatly together.

When an involuntary tremor rippled through her fingers, Castorice inhaled sharply. The dough tore unevenly beneath her hand. Stunned, Castorice stared down at her ruined shell in despair.

Without drawing attention, Phainon nudged a bowl in her direction. The extra dough the trio made earlier as a team was more than enough for a second attempt. “Try it again with the heel of your hand, Cas,” Phainon whispered. “It’ll be less strain on your fingers that way.”

Castorice glanced at him, grateful. She mirrored the action that Phainon demonstrated for her. As she formed the new shell, an angelic smile bloomed on her sweet face.

“Oh, you’re right…”

“Damn, girl, you’ve got a cleaner fold than I do,” Phainon said, genuinely impressed. Castorice always learned new tricks the quickest between them.

“Everyone does,” Mydei drawled. “It’s hardly a high bar to reach.”

Before Phainon could launch his scraper in Mydei’s direction, Castorice’s hand hovered over his own. “Don’t let his words get to you,” she said softly. “Mydei and I are simply worried about you, Phainon.”

“Huh, why—”

Aglaea’s voice rang out with authority. “Fifteen minutes to rest, then into the tart rings. I want precision: edges flush, with no shrinkage in the oven. Show me why you belong here.”

A sense of urgency permeated throughout the kitchen as the students hurried to take their dough into the large refrigerators on the far wall. Phainon did not rush. He placed his dough within a square of cling film and tucked in the edges until he was satisfied with the end result.

Perfection paid off only with a dedication to the smallest of details. That had been the first lesson an eager boy learned from his mother in the kitchen.

Audata had loved working with shortbread in their home. Its enticing scent was a hallmark of Phainon’s earliest memories as he recalled his mother baking inside their tiny kitchen. The paint was chipped on the walls, the floorboards creaked in certain spots, but every imperfection inside that little kitchen was remembered fondly by him.

The village where they lived was also a relic of a bygone time. Whenever Phainon returned to that town by the sea, his grief grew with every closed-down shop he walked past. The bakery he used to visit every day after school was no more. Its ‘closed’ sign in front of the door was a heartbreaking symbol of a once thriving town.

Aedes Elysiae hadn’t been able to keep up with the relentless pace of modern consumerism. As parents and elders grew older, the younger generation moved to the big city for better opportunities. No one could be persuaded to stay in a place meant to fade someday into obscurity.

A big dream, Mydei had called Phainon’s long-held ambitions. He wasn’t wrong.

Phainon refused to let his most beloved place disappear. If he could establish himself as an accomplished pastry chef, the fame of his name would follow him wherever he chose to go. That abandoned bakery of his childhood could be reopened. Phainon could bring life back to an old town by coaxing tourists in and inspiring a new generation himself.

It was all he’d wanted to do since he’d left the village behind to come to the Grove. Phainon had not wanted anything else besides delivering Aedes Elysiae out of its ill fate.

Until…

The distant waves of Okhema’s brilliant blue sea roared in his ears. A beautiful man, with flushed cheeks and clever words to make Phainon’s heart race, had been the first to jostle Phainon’s unshakeable resolve.

“Ever since you’ve come back from break, you seem… different.”

Castorice’s quiet voice followed Phainon to the refrigerators. They placed their dough inside one by one, shivering as the chill of the cold interior brushed against their faces. Phainon closed the door and ran his fingers through the short locks of his white hair.

“Different?”

“Down,” Castorice amended.

Concern colored her expression as she returned with Phainon to their counter. While the pastries rested for the required time interval, the students were to clean up their stations to prepare for the next stage of baking the dessert tart. Mydei had already taken care of his side of the counter. He swiped off the leftover sugar and flour particles with a broad sweep of his arm.

Mydei’s golden eyes rested on Phainon’s face. For once, his friend chose to stay quiet and allowed Castorice to take the lead.

In a gentle voice, Castorice continued. “Forgive me for saying so but you seemed out of it today, Phainon. Did something happen while you were away?”

Anaxa’s face surfaced in Phainon’s mind. Wistfully, he wished something had happened to warrant his friends’ concern for him. He reached for one of the dirty bowls and brought it to the sink to scrub clean. 

“I’m fine,” Phainon said, a beat too quickly.

When met with his friends’ disbelieving stares, he hastily corrected himself, and scrubbed the bowl with more force than necessary.

“Okhema’s the city of dreams— what didn’t happen there? Amazing food and even better desserts. Not even Mydei’s rich ass could dream up those chocolate tarts.”

Phainon busied himself at the sink. He kept his hands constantly moving as he wiped down the used bowls and rinsed them. He made more noise than usual as he set them aside for Castorice to dry. Mydei and Castorice exchanged meaningful glances.

“You had such a big culture shock that you forgot how much butter goes into a tart shell?”

Mydei’s words were sharp, piercing through Phainon’s falsehood like a spear. Phainon wiped his damp hands against his apron several times. He refused to meet their eyes.

“Maybe I just forgot how to bake entirely,” Phainon replied, feigning innocence. 

“Bullshit,” Mydei shot back. “You’ve got ‘I have a secret’ written all over your idiotic face.”

“Mydei,” Castorice scolded.

She clutched nervously at the pendant peeking out of their uniform’s white collar. It had been a gift from her sister, Phainon recalled, and was one of Castorice’s most prized possessions. Several strands of Castorice’s lavender hair had escaped the confines of her braid to frame her lovely face. Her clear worry for him was difficult for Phainon to look at.

Mydei shrugged, unbothered. “I’m just saying, if he’s trying not to look suspicious, it’s failing completely.”

Phainon pressed his lips together. He ducked his head, and for a brief moment, Phainon swore he could still feel the faint sensation of Anaxa’s fingertips brushing against his cheek. His heart thudded in his chest once, hard, before he forced the memory down.

He wiped his damp hands on a towel and pretended to be interested in making sure every droplet was dried off completely.

“Phainon…?” Castorice asked tentatively. “Is it true?”

“Of course it’s true,” Mydei declared, as confident as ever. “Look at how pink his ears have become. Either that secret is about something or someone.”

Phainon froze. Mydei had always been damnably perceptive. Far too much so, in Phainon’s opinion. Phainon tapped his nails against the counter’s edge, betraying the nerves he’d been trying so hard to hide.

“Nailed it,” the blond goaded.

Castorice’s eyes widened in shock. “Phainon, did you meet someone?”

Phainon hesitated. The truth almost escaped his lips, bidden forth by Castorice’s sweet voice. The memory of sunlight streaming through the windows of a hidden bakery, of seeing Anaxa’s rare smile— fleeting, yet beautiful— filled his mind’s eye. His heart ached at the thought of it.

Phainon ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling the locks, as he forced a laugh. “I met many someones,” he joked. “That’s what happens when you cram a million people into one city.”

He grabbed a bowl from the drying rack and made a point of putting it away in the storage drawer below the counter. Anything to keep from blurting out something stupid.

“That sounds suspiciously like a yes,” Mydei drawled.

“You’re reading too much into it.”

Phainon wasn’t ready to tell them about Anaxagoras. It felt too much like rubbing salt on an open wound. One that would take far more than a few days to heal. Anaxa had appeared to him like a figure from a fairytale, its story filled with the existence of someone who seemed so much larger than life. Anaxa was brilliant. Sarcastic. Witty, with a cutting sense of humor that kept Phainon on his toes.

Phainon had wanted so badly to impress him. He had felt his own ego swell with every glint of approval in Anaxa’s gaze that he’d earned with his impromptu review. He’d wanted to chase after Anaxa and lessen the distance between a clumsy, village boy and an untouchable, mesmerizing genius.

But, could he truly do so?

Okhema felt worlds away from him here. What chance did he truly have as someone who barely scraped his way into the most competitive culinary program in Amphoreus? He could spend hours perfecting his craft to try and build a future for Aedes Elysiae and it still might not be enough. If he couldn’t even manage to do something for his home like he wanted, would he ever be worthy enough to stand beside someone like Anaxa?

Phainon’s throat tightened. He shut the drawer closed with enough force to make Castorice flinch. Mydei raised a single brow but, for once, didn’t say anything more.

It was fine. Foolish hopes dumped onto overwhelmingly impossible goals was already Phainon’s way of life.

The fifteen minutes to wait was over. Aglaea’s command to retrieve their shells from the refrigerator was met with an obedient chorus of “Yes, Chef!” as the students scrambled to gather their creations. Phainon was one of the last to get his own. He brought his set pâte sablée to the counter and placed it beside the steel tart ring the pastry required to maintain its shape in the oven.

Aglaea insisted students of the Grove should learn to bake in the traditional way. Despite improvements to modern bakeware— perforated tart rings, for example, rather than the classically smooth steel rings— the instructor was adamant that no short-cuts would be permitted.

“If you wish to improve upon tradition,” she’d warned them on their very first day, two years ago, “then you must show me that you can master it first.”

Phainon tried not to let his mind wander as he rolled out his dough to the required thickness. It would be too easy to let focus slip through his grasp, especially when a familiar buttery scent filled the air. The scent should have been comforting, a reminder of the joy Phainon felt whenever he did what he loved most in the world, but now, it brought to mind a bittersweet memory.

One of Okhema on a perfect, sunny afternoon. Of a stranger’s sharp words and the man’s mysterious smile that Phainon couldn’t bring himself to forget. He didn’t want to forget it.

Phainon pushed his longing aside. He greased the inside of the tart ring with butter and carefully aligned two strips of cut-out dough along its inner edge. The heat of his fingers merged the ends of the two strips together, locking them in place until the dough formed a single ring. As Aglaea demanded, the dough needed to fit snugly against the ring for the tart shell to properly form.

Any excess dough that spilled over the height of the ring was trimmed off by Phainon’s small knife. When he was finally satisfied, Phainon inspected his fully-formed shell with a discerning eye. Only after it was flash-frozen and baked would he be able to see the results of his hard effort.

Aglaea wandered between the work stations. More than one student cowed from her appearance as the instructor’s gaze scanned over the efforts taking place in the kitchen. Some students’ work flows were better than others. While Phainon fussed over trimming off the height of his pastry, Mydei had already gotten his shell into the freezer and was making the final preparations before he was ready to bake.

Castorice was slower. A perfectionist to the core, she made sure the dough strips were fitted tightly to the tart ring, with no gaps visible, before she finally moved on to the next step of adjustments.

When it was finally time, Phainon's tart shell went into the oven. Every passing minute on the timer felt like an eternity as Phainon resisted the urge to check on the pastry. When it finally sounded the alarm, Phainon removed the tart shell from the heat, cradling it between his hands as if it was fragile, and placed it on the counter above.

He couldn’t separate it from the ring until it cooled down first, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t analyze it from every possible angle while he waited. Phainon leaned over the pastry and took note of its golden color— textbook light brown, as expected— while also spotting flaws that made his heart sink. A crack along the edge. Slight unevenness along the edges.

Try though he might, sometimes the results just wouldn’t turn out perfect.

Phainon tossed his oven mitts to the side and inwardly sighed. He wasn’t the only one to have noticed the sloppiness, either. Mydei gave a mock gasp as he sidled over to Phainon’s side of the counter.

“Failed perfectionism in action. You’re sulking over the loss of what— a millimeter?”

“I’m not sulking,” Phainon mumbled.

“Right,” Mydei said, dragging the word out. “How about you try saying ‘nothing’s going on’ one more time. Be real. This isn’t like you.”

When Phainon glanced at his friend, it was to see Mydei’s searching look bent upon his face. Rivalry to them was as natural as breathing but Mydei’s concern for him couldn’t be more obvious. Phainon looked away, refusing to give in.

“Don’t worry about it. Instead, worry about yourself. Aglaea won’t take too kindly to that charred spot in the center of yours.”

“That’s not char, that’s extra flavor.”

Before Phainon could retort, Castorice appeared by his side to peek over his shoulder. “It’s not so bad, Phainon,” she observed, her eyebrows furrowing. “It’s better than most of the class. Even better than mine.”

Phainon sent a sidelong glance to Castorice’s work station. He did not have to see the entire shell to know Castorice’s pastry had come out of the oven as the epitome of perfection. Her steadfast determination to perfect every step resulted in a vastly superior creation, each and every time.

“Sure,” he responded weakly. “Thanks, Cas.”

“‘Better than most of the class’ is hardly a goal one should strive to attain,” an amused voice cut in.

The click of expensive heels heralded Aglaea’s approach to the trio’s workstation. The coat she wore over her shoulders swept elegantly around her hips as she bent down to inspect their tart shells. Aglaea’s expert gaze didn’t miss a single flaw in Phainon’s pastry.

She placed her hands on her generous hips and shot Phainon a knowing look. “Gorgeous color. Excellent butter distribution. However, you know the dough must be tightly pressed. Not a single gap of air can be permitted.”

Ensuring an even bake would’ve been far easier to accomplish with perforated tart rings, rather than the classic ones they were forced to use, but Phainon didn’t think it wise to press his luck by pointing that out.

Aglaea pointed to the tiny crack in the shell. “Otherwise, that will happen.”

“I apologize, Chef.”

“It happens, darling. Was your mind elsewhere while forming it?”

What a popular inquiry today. Phainon rubbed the back of his neck absently and hedged, “Maybe a little.”

“You’ve got good instincts, Phainon. I know you care about the work put into this. You can, and will, do better next time. Tighten the seams and bake it again before class ends.”

“Yes, Chef.”

Aglaea’s attention shifted next to Castorice’s contribution. Praise came readily to her lips, pleasing the insecure young baker who turned pink with happiness. Phainon never begrudged Castorice a single victory she’d earned. After Aglaea walked away, Phainon was the first to congratulate his friend on a job well done.

Mydei did the same. Only afterwards, when Phainon began to work on the filling for the failed tart, did his friend choose to speak up. “Don’t sweat it too much, Deliverer.” Mydei lowered his voice, sounding almost kind. “Everyone crashes and burns once in a while.”

“I didn’t crash and burn. It was just a crack.”

“Tiny spark then. My point still stands.”

A crack on a tart shell shouldn’t have been a big deal. The problem was that, to Phainon, it symbolized something even more: an amateur mistake that should have been easily avoided.

‘You must be the best,” he heard in Anaxa’s softened voice. ‘Anything less is not enough.’

The words gnawed at him. Doubt crept closer, whispering in the back of Phainon’s mind that he wasn’t yet ready for these grandiose dreams of this. Then again, a louder voice interrupted, Phainon wasn’t someone who gave up easily.

Whether it was for the sake of his hometown, or for the sake of his own pride that wanted to see Anaxa again, he couldn’t even think about giving up now.

A sudden clap cut through the din of the noisy kitchen. In a split second, the entirety of the room went silent as the students looked to the front of the room.

“Attention everyone,” Aglaea called out, her voice carrying to every corner, “I have an important announcement to make."

Phainon lowered his mixing spoon to the table. He wiped his hands against his apron and shot a quick glance at his friends, who both stared at Aglaea with open curiosity. 

Once she had the students’ full attention, Aglaea cleared her throat loudly. “We have a rare opportunity to present to you all this semester. A competition will be held between the top-performing members of this senior class. The winner will receive a mentorship with one of the Grove’s most... talked-about alumni.”

The students exchanged excited glances as Aglaea’s mouth thinned ever so slightly, as if she had bitten into something sour.

Aglaea gave a delicate sniff and continued, "Trust me when I say this prize will not be for the faint of heart. Should you win this competition, you will earn a mentorship with one of the most renowned pâtissiers in Amphoreus."

An eager shout of “Who?” was met with Aglaea’s secretive smile.

"Though some might call his methods dramatic, there is no denying his lasting impact on the culinary world. He has certainly built a name for himself— even if I have never agreed on how he went about it.”

Phainon felt a stirring of curiosity. He had never heard Aglaea speak about a fellow mentor in this way before. Usually the essence of professionalism, there was an edge to Aglaea’s words that skirted a fine line between respect and outright distaste.

Aglaea folded her arms and continued, “Be that as it may, this is a prestigious opportunity that I recommend you take seriously. Last semester, I paid careful attention to who, among you in this class, showed the most potential for this competition. I have personally selected ten of you to participate.”

A ripple of gasps spread throughout the room. Phainon’s heart skipped a beat.

“Once class concludes, you will find the list of competitors, as well as any necessary details you must know, posted on the wall in the lobby. Good luck to all of you who wish to compete. You will undoubtedly need it.”

A beat of silence hung in the air after Aglaea's final words. The room was abuzz with a nervous energy as Phainon’s heart hammered against his ribs. Whoever this famous pastry chef was, the desire to win this competition and study under him would be fierce. For Phainon, this was the chance that could change everything for him.

Across the counter, Mydei released a low whistle of appreciation. "Ten competitors, huh? Looks like a true battle’s on the horizon.” A genuine gleam of excitement burned within Mydei’s eyes. The fire of competition had always blazed the brightest in the heart of the young heir. Only now, there was a serrated edge to it, one that hinted at a man willing to push his limits to reach the very end.

“Don’t get too cocky,” Phainon warned him. “Many of us have an eye on that prize.”

Mydei’s answering grin was nothing short of feral. Castorice nudged Phainon gently in the side. “I want to compete, too,” she spoke up in a near-whisper. A hopeful light shined in her expression. “Do you think I’m on the list?”

Phainon gave in to the brotherly urge to pat Castorice’s head fondly. “Of course, Cas. You’re probably right on top. Being Aglaea’s favorite gets some benefits, you know.”

Castorice flushed. “I’m not…”

“And you,” Phainon taunted Mydei. “I trust you won’t go easy on your longtime friends.”

Mydei shook his head. “You know me better than that. Just remember: no hard feelings when you lose, Deliverer.”

“No hard feelings,” Castorice piped up. Beneath her light voice, Phainon could sense an undercurrent of seriousness that was rare for his timid friend.

Glory. Recognition. They all wanted it, including him.

Especially him.

"Let’s see who takes the grand prize then.” The corners of Phainon's mouth twitched upwards into a meaningful grin. “Who else would it be but me? I’ll think up your consolation prizes ahead of time.”

“The battlefield ahead is a place where the full extent of our knowledge will come in handy. Since your mind has a tendency to wander, I won’t bet on you lasting long.”

Phainon couldn't help but laugh, despite the fluttering nerves in his stomach. The competition ahead would be tough but at least it would be undertaken with the people who truly understood him.

“Don’t underestimate me, Mydei. You either, Cas. After all, my favorite feeling in the world is to stay completely focused and think of nothing but defeating my opponent.”

The end of the course couldn’t come quickly enough. Every student in the kitchen had their eyes trained on the clock as the minutes ticked away, one by one.

Who would be on the list? Who would be one of Aglaea’s chosen?

The evaluations of last semester lingered on every one of the students’ minds. They could not have known that the wheels of Aglaea’s grand scheme had already begun to spin back then. That every cream puff and shortbread tart and chocolate ganache she’d taught them to make, and tested them on, had been leading them up to this potentially life-changing moment.

The moment the class finished, a flurry of movement engulfed the kitchen. Students shed out of their aprons and hastily donned their jackets and outdoor shoes. Phainon gathered his belongings and slid his arms through the sleeves of his comfortable black hoodie. The gleam of his bright ashen hair was a stark contrast to the unrelenting black of his clothing.

Castorice eyed him with curiosity. “No yellow today?”

“It’s in the wash,” Phainon mumbled.

Black was a severe color, and typically not the one he gravitated toward if given the choice, but Phainon had run out of clean clothes since returning from Okhema. With only a weekend turnaround time between the journey and getting ready for the new semester, he’d hardly had a chance to breathe, let alone get his personal life together.

Around him, the air buzzed with a different kind of energy. Anticipation, this time, as Phainon and his classmates ventured out eagerly to the Grove’s central lobby. He slung the strap of his duffel bag across his chest, grateful for his natural height that made it easy for him to peer over the heads of the fellow students.

The list was posted exactly where Aglaea said it would be. A crowd of his classmates gathered around it, scanning the short list of ten names and praying their names would be one among them.

Phainon exchanged a wordless look with Mydei and Castorice. He weaved through the crowd with a single, foremost thought pounding inside his head.

Please, let me be on it.

The list of names was neatly printed and signed by Aglaea’s elegant hand. Phainon’s gaze swept nervously over it, searching and searching— until finally, he spotted it. His name.

Relief slammed into Phainon so hard he almost staggered with the weight of it. He inhaled sharply and scanned the other names, his pulse still racing as he sought out the two other names he desperately wanted to see.

Castorice. Mydei. Their names were both listed there.

It wasn’t surprising in the least. Perfect, even. All three of them had been front-runners for this from the very beginning. They were the top three performers in their class, scoring the highest on all of Aglaea’s previous evaluations, and now they would be the top three to beat in this high-stakes competition.

Pride for himself and his friends swelled in Phainon’s chest. And yet, there was also a flicker of wariness. His closest friends were now officially his biggest competitors. Phainon let the feeling settle over him and released the quiet breath he’d been holding.

His eyes moved further down the list. The mystery mentor that Aglaea had mentioned should have been included in the additional details section. Like the others, Phainon was curious about the one who was held in such a questionable regard by Aglaea.

Famous, talented, and talked about.

At the same moment he recalled Aglaea’s description of the other, a familiar name caught and snagged against Phainon’s thoughts.

Anaxagoras.

Phainon blinked.

No, that couldn’t be right.

He’d misread it.

Castorice tugged at Phainon’s sleeve, beaming the brightest he’d ever seen upon her delighted face. “Phainon, can you believe it?” she whispered. “It’s the Anaxagoras. I didn’t think he took new apprentices! I can’t believe it… no one’s even seen him in person in the last two years. We all thought he was traveling abroad.”

Phainon’s mind struggled to catch up to her words. “Wait... who?”

“What do you mean ‘who’? You really are a village boy, huh.” Mydei rolled his eyes and reached into the back pocket of his trousers to fish out his phone. “Only you wouldn’t know who he is.”

Mydei shoved his phone in front of Phainon’s face. A quick search online had brought forth a sleek culinary profile: Anaxagoras, it read, innovator, renowned pâtissier, heretical prince of the modern baking world. His profile glittered with accolades gained over the past decade.

Opened his first professional bakery at 22. The first of six.

Top graduate in his year at the Grove of Epiphany. Eight years ago.

Avant-garde aficionado.

‘Enfant terrible.’

Phainon swallowed, struggling to make sense of the reality that stared back at him on that screen. 

Anaxagoras.

His Anaxa?

Before he could gather his thoughts completely, a sudden commotion stirred at the front doors of the lobby. Phainon, along with everyone else, felt their attention drawn to the same point. A hush descended on the crowd as students stared at the new arrival with wide, curious eyes.

A man had entered through the Grove's front doors.

Anaxa looked different without the gentle sunlight of that perfect afternoon warming his face. Beneath the harsh lights of the Grove, Anaxa was dressed handsomely in expensive, tailored clothes. An elegant coat was draped over his shoulders, cropped short to reveal the form-fitting suit underneath that hugged his slender waist.

There was no mistaking the attractive slant of his mouth, the beautiful sharpness of his features, nor the waterfall of mint hair that spilled down his back, neatly confined by a thick braid.

Phainon’s breath caught as his entire whole world narrowed down to a single person’s existence.

Anaxagoras. He was even more devastating to behold like this.

He was the prize at the end of this competition? The famed mentor who his peers would be desperate to study under for the reward of seeing all their dreams come true?

Phainon couldn’t believe it. His gaze was fixed on Anaxagoras, whose incredible presence loomed with an undeniable authority. Phainon could not tear his gaze away from him, willing Anaxa to notice him in the crowd even if such hopes were futile.

Anaxagoras commanded the attention of everyone in the room as he met Aglaea at the entryway. The two mentors exchanged thin-lipped smiles with the severity of swords that were ready to strike at the chest of the other.

“Well, well,” Aglaea greeted Anaxa. “I trust your journey here was adequate, Anaxagoras.”

“Adequate enough. As for you, Aglaea, I’m surprised to see these antique walls haven’t yet crumbled to dust. Perhaps you aren’t as incompetent as a head instructor as one believed.”

A few of the students standing around Phainon gasped in shock. Phainon, too, was taken aback by the barbs he heard exchanged beneath their pleasantries. This was a far cry from the Anaxa he had crossed paths with before.

That man’s touch had been light. Gentle even, as his fingertips brushed across Phainon's cheek.

The affection in his gaze as he met Phainon’s eyes, the soft flush of his cheeks— Phainon could not reconcile it with the sight of Anaxa's frigid glare as it centered on Aglaea's face.

Aglaea’s twinkling laugh sounded far from sweet. “Well, we do value tradition here, Anaxagoras. Some of us don’t need to rely on theatrics to continually preserve our worth.”

“Come now, where would the world be without a little innovation? You might've produced competent technicians, Aglaea, but let's hope there's an actual artist among them. I do hope I’ll find someone worth my time among your little protégés.”

“It takes more than chaos to create true mastery. But please, do try to find someone who meets your standards. Those I have chosen for you are more than filled with endless potential.”

Anaxa hummed in a way that was almost a purr. Phainon’s pulse quickened as Anaxa’s gaze swept lazily over the crowd, appearing bored as he took in the sight of the students who had gathered there. The ones who lingered and were desperate for even a crumb of the famous chef’s regard.

Phainon wasn’t any better. Please, his heart begged silently, please look at me.

Please.

“Well, Aglaea, I’m afraid…”

Anaxa’s gaze locked onto Phainon standing in the back of the crowd. For one shattering second, something in Anaxa's expression changed. His smirk faltered. A flicker of recognition, along with a glimpse of something far deeper, flashed across his face.

Phainon couldn’t breathe. He didn’t dare move or speak.

“Maybe... there’s one with potential, after all.”

Anaxa’s voice had deepened as he spoke, sending a pleasant thrill coursing down Phainon’s spine at the sound of it. Anaxa’s gaze lingered on him, just long enough to make Phainon’s heart race, before it was ruthlessly torn away. He turned smoothly back to Aglaea as if it had been nothing more than a passing glance.

Phainon felt the weight of his own breath return. It was shallow, ragged, burning harshly in his lungs as if he'd been holding it in for far too long. His thoughts reeled as Anaxa’s words resounded inside his mind.

Maybe there’s one with potential, after all.

It was an impossible hope woven into the most fragile thread. Adrenaline surged through Phainon with nowhere to go as he watched Anaxa leave with Aglaea. Anaxa strode away, his lithe figure disappearing into the very same kitchen where Phainon had made an imperfect pâte sablée only hours before.

“I think I’m losing my mind,” Phainon whispered.

The words sounded laughable when heard by his own ears. Phainon exhaled a shaky breath. He tried to wrestle control over his emotions, his hands still trembling as he shoved them inside his pockets. Castorice and Mydei were talking nearby, likely hashing out the details of the competition, but Phainon didn’t hear them.

The world around him felt distant. That electrifying moment between them just now was haunting him, squeezing his chest so tightly that it made it hard for Phainon to breathe.

There was a single undeniable truth that Phainon could no longer ignore: Anaxa was here.

His Anaxa.

Not in Okhema.

Here.

Chapter Text

Several days had passed since the truth about Anaxagoras had come to light.

The weight of the initial shock had waned only slightly. It continued to linger on Phainon’s mind as he dragged himself to class every morning and pretended his entire world hadn’t just shifted on its axis.

Despite Castorice’s worried glances tossed his way, Phainon couldn’t bring himself to confess the reason for his continual distraction. His work flow defaulted to auto-pilot. Thoughts of Anaxa continued to slip through the cracks of his concentration.

He couldn’t stop thinking about that moment in the lobby.

Anaxa had not spoken to him once since that day. Their paths had not crossed at all, affording Phainon not even a glimpse of the man in the halls of the Grove.

Phainon did not think it was a deliberate avoidance. Anaxa was a busy man. An illustrious chef was likely preparing for the upcoming competition, as Phainon should be doing, and not preoccupied about seeing the other again like Phainon was doing.

Foolish as it was, Phainon dared to hope, every morning for the past three days, that Anaxa would walk through these kitchen doors and intrude upon his class time. Phainon’s heart would race at the thought, sending his imagination into overdrive as he pictured Anaxa looking at him.

Anaxa acknowledging him.

Eventually, his practical mind would scold his too wistful heart. Phainon reminded himself that it was more probable that Anaxa didn’t feel the same grip over his every waking thought that Phainon did. It was a folly of youth: the desire to chase what eluded them.

The more difficult the pursuit, the more Phainon wanted it.

But, he knew better, because someone like Anaxa, who was older and more experienced and so far above Phainon’s own station in life— a student only months away from graduation— would have more important things on his mind than entertaining a youth he’d exchanged words with once.

In truth, they’d entered each other’s lives only by the lucky stroke of Fate’s brush.

If Phainon hadn’t walked into the Seventh Sage that day, he might have never met someone so alluring in all his life. He wouldn’t have known someone whose kindness flowed so subtly in between every sharp-edged, acidic word. He wouldn’t have seen the sight of Anaxagoras’s beautiful smile, or seen the flush of a man who couldn’t handle Phainon’s forward behavior.

Still, Anaxa had rejected him. The pull he sensed between them, back then and during that fateful moment in the lobby, might only exist in his imagination.

A crush. That’s all it truly was.

Today’s class promised to begin as it always did. Noisy chatter filled the kitchen as the students conversed amongst each other. The clock ticked closer to start time. Aglaea hadn’t arrived yet but their instructor typically wouldn’t appear until the last remaining minute, a habitual coffee in hand, as she breezed through the kitchen’s double doors.

Phainon adjusted the white kerchief around his neck and slid a finger beneath the collar to allow more room to breathe easier. When he’d put on his chef whites earlier, he’d noticed the wrinkles creasing along the hem and sleeves. As a professional, he would have to be more mindful of his appearance but, as a student, he couldn't care less.

The apron would cover it. Phainon looped the green upper ties around his neck and fastened the waist ties securely by his hip. Just like that, the proof of Phainon’s indifference was concealed from view. Mydei’s judgmental looks could be shelved for another day.

Phainon went through the robotic motions of preparing his work station as the others did. He was placing his mixing tools on the surface of his station when the double doors opened, the loud sound cutting through the clamor of the kitchen.

Phainon glanced up, expecting to see a head full of blonde hair and to smell the fragrant waft of freshly-brewed hazelnut and cream. His heart nearly stopped at the sight of Anaxa standing there instead.

Oxygen rushed from his lungs as Anaxa’s sweeping glance took in the sight of a frozen group of students. All of them were as shell-shocked as Phainon was to see the handsome man’s sudden appearance.

When Anaxa’s gaze landed on Phainon’s stricken expression, a jolt of heat flooded through Phainon. Something unreadable flickered in Anaxa’s expression and then, it was gone. Anaxa visibly became distant, withdrawing his interest entirely as if Phainon had been any other student.

It stung. Far more than it should have.

Aglaea came forward to stand by Anaxa’s side. The former crossed his arms over his chest, subconsciously imposing distance between himself and Phainon’s instructor as he addressed the students in a calm, professional manner.

“Good morning everyone,” Anaxa greeted. He waited until after a polite chorus of ‘Good morning, Chef’ returned to him before continuing to speak. “I dare hope that you’ve spent this week in an efficient manner. Mental preparations are an understated boon when it comes to preparing for a trial of this nature.”

A wave of nervous giggles followed his words. Anaxa’s brows furrowed.

Aglaea took a step forward and addressed the class with a languid smile. “I believed that a few days’ time would be sufficient for the initial surprise to settle. You all have done well to prepare until now. From this point onward, Anaxagoras and I will anticipate even greater results from you, as I believe you to be the best of the Grove’s future.”

Her gaze lingered briefly on Castorice. “Today will begin the preliminary round of the competition,” she announced.

Several gasps broke out. Phainon’s own nervousness escalated sharply. To be thrust headfirst into the competition without warning was nothing short of terrifying. Beside him, Castorice trembled from a wave of sheer anxiety.

“There will be a dual challenge for the preliminary round. The first part will test your technical skills. Specifically, your precise execution of the basics. The second part will test your creativity under pressure.”

Phainon discreetly reached out and rested his hand against Castorice’s arm. When Castorice glanced up at him, he smiled reassuringly back at her. Only then did the tension drain out of his nervous friend.

“Thank you, Phai,” she mouthed to him. Phainon nodded, a simple tilt of the head that should have gone unnoticed by anyone else besides them.

When he looked up again, it was to see Anaxa’s gaze fixated on him. Phainon’s heart thudded inside his chest. When Anaxa’s attention shifted downward, touching upon the sight of Phainon’s fingertips resting on Cas’s forearm, a frown darkened the chef’s beautiful features.

Anaxa looked away as he seamlessly took over the explanation where Aglaea had left off. The sound of his voice, cool and collected, fell pleasantly on Phainon’s ears.

“The two of us will be judging the results of the challenge personally. You will be given all the tools you need and the ingredients will be distributed to your stations shortly. All ingredients will be exactly the same for the technical challenge so as to ensure maximum fairness. As for the creativity portion, that will be left up to you. I expect nothing less than excellence.”

Around him, the students began to whisper excitedly to one another. The thrill of the challenge was met with nervousness and an undeniable, mounting pressure. Not even Phainon was immune to it.

Anaxa’s gaze swept over the room once more. Phainon felt his breath catch as he longed for a look to confirm the existence of hope that flickered hotly inside his chest. Just a single one to calm him down and give clarity to this desperate need.

This was no good. He needed to focus on the challenge, not on Anaxa.

“One last thing.” Anaxa’s interruption brought another halting silence to the room. “Flawless technique is the bare minimum Aglaea and I expect from you. This competition is not only about skill, but also about how you implement it in the creative challenge.”

He lowered his voice and the resulting timbre made Phainon’s heart race. “Reason, desire, and passion— an original work born from the yearning in your heart— that is what I am looking for.”

Reason, desire, and passion. Those words planted seeds in Phainon’s thoughts. They embedded their roots deep within and resonated with the ambition of a village boy who had come to the Grove with a singular desire to bring prosperity to Aedes Elysiae.

Every student here had a similar reason to succeed like Phainon. Mydei wanted to overtake his family’s legacy. Castorice wanted to gain enough stability to provide for her sister.

Reason, desire, and passion. That was what defined a master of this craft. That was exactly who Phainon wanted to be.

“I want to see who you are on that plate. Playing it safe is not to my taste, nor should it be to yours.”

An undeniable challenge was seemingly spoken directly to Phainon as he and Anaxa locked eyes once more. A charged undercurrent passed between them, leaving Phainon breathless.

Was he only imagining it? A moment’s certainty faltered in the next. Phainon had been too in his head these past few days. Doubt pricked at the edges of his confidence.

A tense silence enveloped the kitchen. The sudden announcement of today’s preliminary round had left all of the students reeling from the news. It was hard to catch up with the anxious feelings collecting inside their chests as they exchanged wary glances with one another.

Castorice held herself apart, her gaze fixed on the floor as her face turned pale.

Eventually, Aglaea broke the silence. “You will have twenty minutes to prepare before the terms of the first challenge are given,” she said calmly. “You may begin… now.”

The enchantment that held the students in its grip collectively burst. The kitchen was doused in a rush of movement as the competitors scrambled to stand at their stations. Castorice took up the familiar spot beside him, while Mydei strode to the spot across from him.

Mydei rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, one by one, as he shot Phainon a wry look. “Still daydreaming after all of that? Come on now, you’re embarrassing the rest of us.”

“Embarrassing you? That implies there’s someone you want to impress.”

Phainon’s stomach had twisted into knots since the announcement. It was hard for him to tear his gaze away from Anaxa but common sense dragged him away by the collar. There would be no point to any of this if he couldn’t focus long enough to pass the first challenge.

Mydei’s eyes glinted. “Maybe there is. The pretty chef is worth impressing.”

“You can just tell Aglaea how you feel. Might lose a limb in the process, though.”

“Not her. Him.”

There was no need to clarify who he meant. Phainon forced himself not to glance even once in Anaxa’s direction. He could sense the beautiful chef’s presence at the front of the kitchen, watching over all of them as the competitors scrambled to get their bearings.

Phainon exhaled slowly, willing himself to remain calm. “Mydei, what are you getting at?”

“I wonder what it’s like to be critiqued by someone who could ruin you with a single glance. What’s it like, Phainon? He seemed to be aware of your troublesome nature in particular.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Tell me,” Mydei lowered his voice, his gaze remaining steady as he honed in on Phainon’s hidden weakness. “Is it part of your strategy to charm the judges? That’s a bold move from you, Deliverer, even if it is immoral.”

“I wouldn’t resort to something like that,” Phainon snapped. “I don’t need to beat you unfairly when it’s easy enough to defeat you on my own.”

He felt dangerously on edge as Mydei smirked at him. His friend had unwittingly struck somewhere close to the truth and sensed it. Phainon would never flirt with Anaxa to gain an advantage in the competition but to say he didn’t crave Anaxa’s attention for another reason— that would be too close to a lie.

“Enough, you two,” Castorice's voice came over from the station next to his, her tone soft but firm with reproach. She narrowed her eyes at Mydei and pointed her whisk at him. “You’re being cruel to him.”

“Cruel? Me?”

Phainon looked down at the basket of ingredients that was swiftly placed in front of him. The students who had not been chosen for the competition were allowed to participate as Aglaea’s helpers. It was them who distributed the woven baskets at her quietly-voiced command.

All around him, the competitors were vibrating with anticipation as they wondered about what would be contained within. Without Aglaea’s permission, Phainon could not open the lid to peek in just yet.

“Yes, you,” Castorice emphasized to Mydei. “You promised to take this competition seriously and here you are, teasing Phainon about things he can’t control.”

Phainon blinked, startled by Castorice’s sudden words. “What? What can’t I control?”

The young woman kept her sights on a frowning Mydei. “Even if you’re jealous that Anaxagoras noticed him first, it does not mean you get a free pass to antagonize Phainon for it.”

Phainon’s cheeks flamed. “Cas, he didn’t… he didn’t notice me."

“Jealous?!” Mydei repeated, dumbfounded. “I…”

Castorice bit her lip. “You both should remember that Anaxagoras is a highly respected senior in our field,” she reminded them in a hushed voice. “It will benefit you to focus on satisfying his expectations in this round instead of arguing with one another.”

“So, you really do think he’s pretty!” Phainon hissed at Mydei under his breath. He’d only believed Mydei to be taunting him with such words, the better to throw his rival off-kilter so early in the competition. “Mydei, you hypocrite.”

Mydei’s eyes nearly bulged out in disbelief. “Do you hear yourself right now? Please. He’s not even my type!”

Phainon jabbed a finger in the direction of Mydei’s chest. “You’re a filthy liar daring to utter such lies. He is everyone’s type. Isn’t that right, Cas?”

“He is very pleasing to look upon,” Castorice agreed, without a moment’s hesitation.

“Stunning. Gorgeous. A feast for the eyes.” Phainon’s eyes narrowed into a glare. “Don’t even look at our senior! You’re not worthy of doing so.”

“You two are united with one brain cell at the oddest times.”

Before Phainon could retort, Aglaea stepped forward and grabbed everyone’s attention with a loud clap of her hands. “Competitors,” she announced, “you may now lift the lids of your baskets and see what is inside.”

There was a collective breath taken as the students reached as one to undo the clasps of their mysterious ingredients baskets. After lifting the lid, Phainon placed it on the counter and dragged the basket forward so he could look inside more closely.

Butter, water, milk, sugar, salt, flour, and eggs. They were the very basic components for a variety of pastry doughs.

Aglaea’s voice rose. “You will find inside your basket the required ingredients for the technical stage of today’s challenge: pâte à choux.”

Choux pastry. The dessert pastry was called ‘cabbage’ because the end result resembled little golden cabbages. Phainon was impressed with the choice. Choux pastry was incredibly versatile as the starting point.

Aglaea’s golden gaze swept over the competitors. “This technical task will form the base of your final creative presentation. You have forty-five minutes to complete this challenge. Proceed.”

On the heels of her command, the competitors leaped into action. The kitchen began to hum with intensity as Phainon set out a saucepan on one of the induction burners. Prepping for a choux pastry was a habit already ingrained into him from the start. It was one of the first techniques taught to young culinary students and often used throughout their schooling.

Phainon’s fingers moved without much thought as he added butter into the pan to heat up. The sugar, salt, milk, and water were all added in sequence as his thoughts drifted ahead to the creative challenge to come. With choux pastry as the base, Phainon would have to create an original dessert that reflected who he was as a person.

It would also be the first opportunity for Anaxa to learn more about him.

The answer, Phainon thought to himself with a smile, was rather simple. There was nothing more important to Phainon than the village he’d left behind. If he could incorporate aspects of Aedes Elysiae into this dessert, that would showcase the very essence of Phainon’s heart.

He continually stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon until it reached a simmer. Phainon dumped the flour in the pan and kept stirring until dough formed exactly the way he wanted.

Aedes Elysiae. What came to mind when he thought about his childhood home? There was the seaside and the shore where he and Cyrene would play until the sun lowered in the sky. Phainon could recall the salt in the ocean’s breeze and the barest scent of flowers. Lemon blossoms. Cyrene’s favorite.

Phainon transferred the dough into the mixing bowl and added eggs into one at a time. As the machine whirred, he watched the dough carefully until he’d judged it to be the right consistency. Liquid gold and smooth, it was perfect to go directly into a piping bag.

Ten minutes had already passed. A quick glimpse at Castorice’s station saw his friend prepping her trays for baking. Mydei was at a similar pace as he spread parchment paper on his trays and picked up his own piping bag to begin forming the little balls of pastry.

Across the kitchen, Phainon heard footsteps. Controlled and light. Anaxa was circulating.

Phainon allowed himself just a glimpse of that delicately pretty face. One’s beauty could not diminish his sheer presence. More than one student shook with nerves as Anaxa hovered around their station. His lean arms were folded behind his back as he inspected a student’s progress.

The oversized cardigan Anaxa wore evoked a sense of casual comfort that unexpectedly suited the chef. It engulfed his slender frame without drowning him. The sleeveless black shirt worn beneath it was an even more intoxicating sight. As Anaxa bent down to examine the other competitor’s dough, Phainon was afforded a glimpse of the smooth plane of his shoulders.

Focus, Phainon hastily scolded himself.

Throat dry, he hurriedly piped out his choux dough onto a baking tray. When it was time, he slid the tray into the oven and waited for the first batch to bake. The judges would only require two choux pastries to judge but Phainon knew better than to risk it all on a single try. He had plenty of dough left over to make more. Plus, Cas would probably like to try his creation later, too.

Would Anaxa come over to him? An anxious anticipation stirred inside his chest at the thought as Phainon reached for a pad and a pen. While the choux pastry baked, he would have to quickly come up with a plan for the filling of his dessert.

As he sketched up a rudimentary design for lemon cream choux, half his attention dwelled on the figure he couldn’t get off his mind.

Anaxa never came. He moved on, bypassing Phainon's station entirely without a single glance sent his way.

Phainon swallowed down his disappointment and refocused on his work. Home was on his mind, the theme of his creation as he mentally mapped out what he needed. The tartness of lemon for Cyrene, fresh thyme reminiscent of his mother’s tended garden, and chamomile, a staple herb to tie all these fragrant flavors together.

It wasn’t bold. Far from it, actually. But it was simple and honest— like Phainon. If Anaxa wanted to see Phainon’s heart in his work, then what else could it be but his home?

It would not be made with a towering sugar dome, like Cas’s, or with an abundance of experimental-flavored mousse like Mydei’s, but it was his. Classic and delicious. Nostalgic and loaded with memories that sprang to Phainon’s mind with the barest whiff of lemon blossom.

Phainon fetched the special ingredients he needed from the kitchen’s large storage and returned to his station. He expertly whipped together the lemon-based cream and garnish while his choux pastry continued to bake.

“Competitors, you have twenty minutes left!”

Aglaea’s ringing voice pumped Phainon full of adrenaline. The timer of the oven went off and he retrieved his tray, taking it out and placing it carefully on the counter’s surface. Golden brown and fluffy— they appeared perfect to his eyes.

“Mydei, your piping is becoming uneven.”

Mydei halted his progress of the piping mousse onto the bottom of his choux. He sent Castorice an aggrieved look. “Are you trying to help me or distract me from judging that monstrosity over there?”

“I only wanted to point out that your cream is leaking onto the plate.”

“Worry about yourself. That sugar structure you’re building is going to disintegrate within minutes under these hot lights. They’re not going to make it to the table.”

Castorice frowned, visibly worried. Part of the judging process would be to carry one’s presentation tray to where Aglaea and Anaxa would be seated at the front of the kitchen. The task of successfully carrying one’s dessert to the panel without it collapsing was just as much part of the challenge as the act of baking.

Phainon could guess the true root of her worries. Castorice’s affliction of the hands, a troublesome tremor she’d been born with, would make that task especially difficult on her.

They would be asked to present their creations one by one. The students who had already finished with their submissions were patiently waiting for their names to be called. As this was a preliminary round, several students had hurriedly rushed their baking process in order to beat the deadline ahead of time.

Phainon thought it a reckless strategy but not an unwise one. The one thing the competitors could not do was submit an unfinished dessert. It was better to be fast and on time than to be late.

Phainon, finished with his cream mixture, moved on to the next step of painstakingly assembling it all together. He tuned out every sound as he focused up on piping the cream and fashioning the swirls of crisp lemon garnish to be placed on top.

The minutes ticked down.

His hands moved with precision, placing the final shard of sugar-dusted lemon onto the top of the choux by the time the two minute warning was called. Phainon took a step back to take a deep, fortifying breath. His heart pounded.

The end of the first test was here. Now, he must prove himself with the risky choice he’d made.

Aglaea’s voice rang clear across the kitchen. “Time is up! Please step away from your stations.”

Phainon wiped his hands on his apron and glanced around. A few of the students were still fussing over their plated choux, casting worried glances at the desserts that would have to successfully make it over to the judging table.

Mydei let out a quiet whistle and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Castorice looked pale, a soft sheen of perspiration decorating her temples.

Anaxa and Aglaea were seated behind a small white table at the front of the kitchen. Two cups of water were provided to the judges by the helpers as Aglaea called the first student over.

“Mydei, come present your creation.”

Phainon’s hands were clammy as he awaited his turn to present. The panel was seated far enough away for the individual presentations to be privately conducted. He could hear nothing of the critiques given to the other students. All Phainon could see were their expressions— some crestfallen, as Anaxa frowned at the taste of their dish, and others beaming as Aglaea praised the look of their golden choux.

“Phainon, come present your creation.”

Aglaea’s smooth voice escalated his anxiety. Phainon tempered it down by the sheer force of his will. He carefully carried his presentation tray to the front, his heart racing with every step he took. He did not dare look at Anaxa. Nevertheless, the weight of his gaze— imagined or not— felt heavy on him.

He placed his pastry on the table before them and waited.

Aglaea leaned forward first, her expression calm as she inspected the two plates of identical lemon cream choux. “Please describe your creation.”

Phainon took a bracing breath and released it in the same instant. “This is a choux pastry inspired by my hometown, Aedes Elysiae. I wanted to take something simple and familiar and shape it into a beautiful memory.”

He pointed to the choux on Aglaea’s plate. “The filling is a chamomile and lemon diplomat cream, reminiscent of the pastries my mother used to make for my friend, Cyrene, and I whenever we got in her way. The only way to shoo us out of the kitchen was to send us outside with a plate full of lemon goodies. That was Cyrene’s favorite.”

Anaxa remained silent as Aglaea gave a thoughtful hum. “Your choux work is excellent as always, Phainon. A gorgeous color and an even rise on both of them. Not overmixed and baked to the perfect second. I am pleased with this display of technique.”

He bowed his head slightly, relief beginning to seep in, until Anaxa’s fork tapped once against the edge of the ceramic plate. “Cyrene,” he murmured.

Phainon did not dare breathe as Anaxa raised an eyebrow. The chef’s expression didn’t change as he took the smallest bite of the pastry and turned it over on his tongue.

Aglaea’s smile was glowing in comparison. “The diplomat cream is smooth and well-balanced. I can taste the freshness of the lemon, even cut down as it is by the sweetness of the sugar you added to it. The sense of comfort you wanted from a hometown memory… I can feel it, Phainon.”

“Familiar, simple… and safe. If the interpretation of home was your goal, there was a better way to go about it.”

Phainon’s heart stuttered at the discontent in Anaxa’s voice. “Safe?” he repeated, his voice as soft as a whisper.

Anaxa’s sharp gaze missed nothing of Phainon’s paled features. “I agree with Aglaea, your technical work is flawless. But, when it comes to originality, I will confess to disappointment. This type of dessert is one you’d see a thousand times in competitions like this.”

Phainon’s chest tightened at the words. “You said there was a better approach?”

“The idea of home is a beautiful one but not executed here to its fullest potential.” Anaxa tempered his reproach with a softening of his voice. He placed the fork down beside the plate quietly. “Creativity, the kind that makes you stand apart from the rest of your peers, is what is needed here. You say this dessert is a representation of your home. What about it?”

Phainon swallowed past the lump in his throat. His cheeks burned as he replied, “When I think of home, I think of my mother, Cyrene, and… the sea.”

“The sea,” Anaxa repeated. “The sea isn’t clean or simple. It’s wild. The brine? The wind? It’s salty. It bites when it hits the back of your throat. That’s not what you put on this plate.”

“Then… what would you suggest?”

Blue eyes met and held Anaxa’s intense gaze. The chef’s lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. “To evoke the memory of the sea, you must make them taste it. Use something like mastiha. Comforting, but tasting strange enough to knock someone off their feet.”

Heat flared in the pit of Phainon’s stomach. Mastiha. There was no coincidence in Anaxa making that suggestion.

“If you want to use lemon, then burn it next time. Sentimentality can guide one’s inspiration but it cannot be the only component of artistic creation. You could have done a glaze that mimics the sheen of sea glass, or added decorative tuile to look like shells that wash up on the shore. This was too safe. Good, but not good enough.”

The words landed on him like a cold splash of water. And yet, there was no cruelty in Anaxa’s quietly-spoken words. Phainon’s throat ran dry. He wanted to say something more, to defend himself under the weight of Anaxa’s disappointed gaze, but he could not find his voice.

Anaxa looked away and pushed the plate aside. “I believe you are more than capable of surprising someone. Push yourself further next time.”

“Thank you, Phainon,” Aglaea said calmly. “You may return to your station.”

Phainon nodded and retrieved the tray before heading back the way he came. His hands trembled but it was not from any sense of shame. He did not fear failure in front of Anaxa.

It was more than that.

It was the realization that Anaxa wasn’t wrong. Phainon, distracted by the pressure and his nerves, had not pushed himself beyond his limits like he usually did. His confidence in beating his friends (especially Mydei) was rooted in earned self-assurance.

When not weighed down by a childish crush, he could push himself further than anyone else.

In the face of Anaxa’s inevitable judgment, Phainon had done something unlike himself: he’d hesitated. Hadn’t Castorice warned him? Mydei, too?

Phainon inwardly sighed as he reached his station. He began to wipe down the workspace, if only to keep his hands distracted as his mind wandered. Anaxa’s critique continued to echo inside in his head. It burrowed inside the vulnerable cracks of his pride and stabbed deep.

He could admit it. He’d wanted Anaxa’s praise above all else. Not politeness, nor critique wrapped in a professional guise. Praise.

He glanced at the judges’ table. Aglaea was leaning to inspect another student’s choux and she nodded encouragingly as the young man presented his entry. Anaxa, on the other hand, sat completely still. His inscrutable expression conveyed none of his inner thoughts.

Phainon couldn’t tell if he was bored or merely listening politely.

He gritted his teeth and tossed the used towel aside. Was it childishness, or pride, or jealousy that drove his feelings now? He’d wanted to impress Anaxa and he’d completely failed.

Castorice, who had been watching the presentations as well from her station, caught Phainon’s eye. She gave him a sympathetic smile as if she could guess the heavy thoughts on his mind.

Phainon tried his best to muster up an answering smile in return. This was far from over. A preliminary round might as well be called a practice round. Today’s result would have no real bearing on the competition. He still had a chance, as small as it might seem.

Aglaea rose from her seat at the judges' table, hands folded before her as the last student returned to their station. “Well done, all of you,” she declared, cutting through the tension that gripped all the competitors.

Phainon could see some, like him, were afflicted with the heaviness of an unwanted result. They were slumped over, expressions tense as they avoided meeting Aglaea’s eyes. Others, like Castorice, were glowing from the praise they’d rightfully received.

Phainon made a mental note to ask her about her evaluation later, after all of this was over.

“This preliminary round was not only a test of your technique, but also of your ability to adapt and stay composed under pressure. You all have proven to us that you deserve to be here.”

The knot in Phainon’s stomach didn’t loosen in the slightest bit.

“The first official round,” Aglaea continued, “will begin promptly at ten tomorrow morning. As a reward for your hard efforts today, you may leave the kitchen early and get some rest. Reflect on what you’ve learned from your evaluations and be prepared to improve from this point forward.”

With a soft clap of her hands, she dismissed them. “Be sure to clean up your station and then you may go.”

Immediately, the students began to gather up their personal belongings to leave. They spoke in hushed and tired voices as stations were hastily cleaned and used ingredients thrown away. There was a system beneath the madness, a habitual routine that every student followed without question until every inch of the kitchen was immaculately clean.

Phainon didn’t move. He stared down at the empty counter and the closed container holding the extra choux pastry he intended to give to his friends later. He peeled off his apron with stiff fingers and folded it carefully before setting it aside.

Most of the students had already left. There were only a few stragglers, like Phainon, who were left behind.

A soft pitter-patter of footsteps reached him. Phainon glanced up to see Castorice hovering beside him, a gentle kindness behind her eyes as she smiled at him. Her bag was slung over one shoulder, its weight bearing down on her small frame and causing her to favor her left side.

"You haven’t left yet?”

Phainon forced out a weak smile. "Guess I’m a little slower today than I thought."

Castorice leaned her hip against the counter and studied him. Like Mydei, she always seemed to be able to read through the lines of what Phainon said. Or didn’t say.

"Don’t take it too hard, Phai," she told him. “It’s expected for our seniors to be harsh on us, especially this early on in the competition. Not everything they said to me was kind either."

Phainon’s laugh was faint. "I doubt they were tough on you at all."

“They were,” she insisted.

“Mhm.”

“Mydei’s always challenging you to do better, Phainon, and I don’t think it’s any different with Aglaea or Anaxagoras either. If they are harsh with you… it’s likely because they believe in you.”

It was hard to stay drowning in one’s self-pity when Castorice’s hand slipped beneath the watery surface. His friend was an encouraging soul despite her own lack of self-esteem. The faith she could not muster up for herself was plentiful when given to others.

She reached for Phainon’s hand beneath the water and he allowed her to pull him back up.

"Thanks, Cas,” he murmured, meaning it sincerely.

Castorice straightened up. Her slender fingers wrapped around the strap of her bag as she squeezed it unconsciously. "Mydei said he wanted to treat us to a celebratory dinner tonight, if you’re up for it.”

“As he should, wealthy bastard.”

“Are you coming?”

Phainon opened his mouth to answer but, before he could, the sound of another set of footsteps reached his ears. With everyone gone already besides him and Castorice, there should be no reason for someone else to come back here.

The door opened and both he and Castorice looked up at the same time.

Anaxa.

Phainon’s eyes locked on him. The tension between them was pulled taut, so much so that even Castorice could sense something was off. She shot Phainon a worried look, but Phainon merely shook his head.

“I’ll join you guys later,” he told her.

Castorice nodded. She retreated quickly from the kitchen but not before politely saying goodbye to Anaxagoras along the way. The older man greeted her with equal cordiality.

The doors swung shut behind with a quiet click.

Silence descended between them.

Anaxa did not speak right away. He lingered by the door, the fluorescent overhead lights casting harsh lines on his lovely features. His hands were down by his sides, loose and casual, as if unbothered by the same restraint that held Phainon in its grip. A cool reserved quality emanated from him.

He was still so gorgeous. Maddeningly so.

"You’re still here," Anaxa finally said.

Phainon got to his feet. His every nerve felt like it was on fire and screaming. "I needed a minute to myself.”

“You were speaking with her.”

Her. Anaxa sounded hesitant on the word. Almost as if he hadn’t wanted to mention it at all. Phainon cocked his head. He recalled the look Anaxa had given him earlier that day, that brief sight of a disgruntled frown that appeared when Phainon had sought to comfort Castorice for only a moment.

A strained smile appeared on Phainon’s face. “Cas is just a friend to me.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Anaxa’s gaze raked over him. Phainon shrugged one shoulder, nonchalant. “Worth the clarification, I think.”

"It’s not.”

Beneath the icy dismissal, Phainon sensed a heat beneath the words that wasn’t exactly anger. Not yet. Phainon lifted his chin defiantly. “You’re disappointed in me, aren't you?”

Anaxa stepped forward. The distance between them felt as wide as a gulf, narrowing with every approaching step and yet growing further as they danced around the unspoken between them.

Phainon took a deep breath and braced himself. "You were hoping I'd be different. Maybe even hoping I'd already be what you wanted when you came here.”

For a split second, Anaxa’s calm demeanor splintered. A shadow passed through that single eye— too fast for anyone to catch except for Phainon, who had been specifically looking for it.

"Don’t be ridiculous.” Anaxa’s lips were pressed into a hard line. He glared at Phainon but his voice wasn’t entirely steady. A faint tremor hovered beneath the sharp words.

“Who is?”

A dangerous thought broke loose inside Phainon. It was a reckless impulse, no doubt born from the ugly storm of feelings that twisted inside him. Anaxagoras was not a dream that Phainon could keep to himself, safe and tucked away inside the recesses of his heart.

Anaxa was here, real, and very upset, judging by the glint of steel Phainon could see in his intense regard. Phainon’s pulse slammed against his ribcage. Breathless with adrenaline, he strode forward, the space between them shrinking until he was close enough to feel the heat radiating off of Anaxa’s body.

“I didn’t know it was you, Anaxa,” Phainon said, his voice pitched low. “Truly, I had no idea.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He softened his gaze and implored gently, “Anaxagoras, please believe me.”

“I already do.”

“You do?” Phainon repeated, rather surprised.

Anaxa heaved a low sigh. He reached up to rub two of his fingers against his temple, as if to ward off the sudden throb of a headache. “It was the look on your face when you saw me again, Phainon. I do not believe acting to be a natural talent of yours.”

“Oh, okay… that hurt a little.”

“It is not my intention to hurt you.”

“Then let me ask you about your intentions, Anaxagoras. Did you mean it when you said I had potential?”

“...Yes.”

“To take me under your wing? Or perhaps as something more—”

“Enough." Anaxa’s features twisted with annoyance. "Don’t speak of it, Phainon."

Phainon didn’t back down. His gaze sharpened, steady. "I’m not stupid, Anaxa."

"No, you’re emotional," Anaxa flatly rejected. "You think what happened between us before means something. It does not."

"The way you look at me says otherwise."

The line of Anaxa’s jaw tightened. The smallest flicker of frustration passed over his expression before he exhaled, deep and low. His next words were quieter, almost weary sounding. "You don't know what you want, Phainon, nor can I be certain of it either."

The accusation landed harder than it should have. Phainon opened his mouth, only to stop himself at the last second. When he finally spoke, it was hardly more than a whisper. “What does that mean?”

“I am your senior here, not a prize for you to chase in hopes of securing a win in this competition.”

The air rushed out of Phainon’s lungs. Mydei’s taunting accusation from earlier in the day returned to him in full force. His friend’s biting words, a joking intention beneath a layer of bitterness, suggested that Phainon might boldly seduce Anaxagoras for his own benefit.

Mydei had only been trying to get under his skin, but Anaxa… he did not know Phainon well enough yet to know his true intentions.

Phainon’s voice was hoarse as it broke through the lump in his throat. “That’s not… I don’t think of you in that way.”

"Phainon, you must remember that you are here to compete," Anaxa said firmly. “Do not lose your focus this early on.”

He shifted in place and Phainon’s gaze became rooted to the sight of Anaxa’s slender collarbones just visible beneath the edge of his cardigan. His mouth watered. Anaxa was completely unyielding, a soul of steel wrapped in a soft-looking cage, and yet his lithe figure begged Phainon to wrap him in his arms and hold tight.

Phainon towered over him. He could engulf Anaxa with his entire body and hide him away from the rest of the world. He could hide him from Mydei, too. If Mydei couldn’t appreciate the cold beauty of Anaxagoras, he was clearly blind in both eyes.

“I… understand.”

“Good boy.”

Heat surged into Phainon’s cheeks. His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into the flesh of his palms, as Phainon resisted the urge to say something more. He wanted to insist to Anaxa that he knew the difference. Phainon wasn’t here for what Anaxa could give him— an affectionate advantage that would help him defeat his peers in this competition— but rather, Phainon was here because he wanted him.

It was the rigidness of Anaxa’s posture that stopped him. Anaxa held Phainon’s gaze for a beat longer. The tip of his tongue peeked out and swept unconsciously along his lower lip.

Phainon clamped a lid down tight on an instinctive whine.

Anaxa nodded once, the gesture stiff and reluctant, before he turned away. He strode toward the door. When it clicked shut behind him, the weight of his absence was almost more than Phainon could bear.

Phainon stayed where he was for several minutes more. His heart was pounding too fast, his chest aching, as the reality of what all had just happened set in.

Anaxa, his Anaxa, was not certain about Phainon’s intentions?

His Anaxa did not believe yet that Phainon wanted him?

Beneath the ache of today’s endless disappointments, a stubborn ember of hope flickered to life. Feeling defiant, Phainon exhaled loudly and grabbed his bag from where it was tucked away beneath his work station.

So what if Anaxa was separating them based on a misunderstanding?

Phainon would just have to convince him otherwise.

Chapter Text

The hotpot restaurant Mydei chose was a hidden gem nestled in the downtown area of the Grove. It was a well-kept secret from the tourists who flooded other parts of the city, as the locals and students of the surrounding schools guarded it zealously to preserve its lively atmosphere.

From the moment Phainon walked through the door, he was greeted by the delicious scent of boiled pork and fresh spices. At this time of night, the restaurant was filled to the brim by a rambunctious crowd. Phainon recognized many of the faces, greeting a few by name, as he made his way to his usual spot.

Castorice and Mydei had already claimed the trio’s favorite table. Steam wafted from a bubbling pot in the center of the table as Mydei expertly fed thin slices of meat into the seasoned broth.

Phainon shrugged out of his jacket and slid into the booth next to Castorice. She smiled up at him in welcome, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“Was everything okay after I left?” she asked Phainon tentatively. He didn’t blame her. If the last thing he saw was their senior and his friend staying behind closed doors to privately talk, he’d be curious, too.

Mydei glanced over. “Was what okay?”

Castorice looked to Phainon to answer. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. Phainon could see the suspicion in his friend’s eyes that awaited his confirmation of her guess that something was going on.

Phainon reached for a piece of raw carrot and bit off the end of it. He took his time chewing it. “Define ‘okay.’”

“I just meant… Anaxagoras seemed to want to talk to you personally.” Castorice stirred the vegetables on her plate then glanced at him from beneath her lashes. She paused, weighing her next words. “It appeared to me like you two already knew each other.”

Phainon kept his tone light as he watched the steam rise from the pot. Mydei was the best cook among them, perfect at judging the exact moment when the meat was ready to be scooped out. Around them, other patrons chatted and laughed, lost in their own corners of the world. A radio from another era played a rock song that had been popular a decade ago.

“We did exchange words during the evaluation before,” Phainon reminded her.

“Sure, but…” Castorice trailed off. Her brows knitted together as she thought over how to phrase her question the best.

Mydei ladled up a portion of the cooked meat and vegetables to dump onto his plate. “How would he and Phainon have met already? Phainon had no clue who he was when Aglaea’s list went up.”

“That’s true…”

Phainon waited until Castorice had gotten her own serving from the hotpot before delving into it himself. The sharp, spicy aroma of the broth hit him full force, clearing his sinuses and making his eyes sting. His stomach growled, reminding Phainon that he hadn’t had a single bite to eat since breakfast that morning. With everything that went down afterwards, food had been the last thing on his mind.

With his friends here and the good food in front of him, Phainon had almost fully relaxed his guard. Unfortunately, Castorice wasn’t quite done.

“Phainon,” she spoke up again and poked at the vegetables on her plate. “I don’t think I’m mistaken.”

That earned her a sidelong glance from Phainon, who felt both amused and reluctantly impressed. “You really don’t miss much, do you, Cas?”

She offered up a sheepish smile. “It’s hard to do so when it’s right in front of me.”

Mydei froze mid-bite, his chopsticks hovering halfway to his mouth. “Wait, wait… back up a second. We are talking about Anaxagoras, correct? Are you trying to tell us you met him before he came here?”

Phainon reached for another slice of the beef nonchalantly. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“That’s not exactly a no,” Mydei said, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “And if it’s a yes, then it is a big deal. Where would you have crossed paths with him before? And when? He hasn’t been seen in public for years.”

Was it selfish of him to want to keep the memory of meeting Anaxa in Okhema to himself? He had to share Anaxa with everyone else in the competition. Couldn’t this one memory be his own to cherish alone?

Phainon didn’t lift his chopsticks. He let the question hang in the air a little longer before finally answering them. “When I was in Okhema,” he admitted, keeping his voice calm. “We crossed paths unexpectedly. It was purely by chance. I’m surprised he remembered me at all.”

Mydei gaze sharpened further. “Then why did you act like you’ve never heard of him before? You seemed genuinely shocked when the list went up.”

“I wasn’t acting… not exactly. We barely spoke when we met. I hardly got more than his name.”

“His name is all you needed,” Mydei fired back.

“So, what?” Phainon snapped, then caught himself. He exhaled slowly. “It’s not like I had time to stalk him and discover every little thing. I was back in the Grove the next day. Classes were about to begin.”

Sensing an argument brewing, Castorice stepped in with a gentle murmur. “Phainon, I know you said it wasn’t a big deal… but I’m wondering if that’s true.”

Phainon stilled. His gaze fell to the pot, where bubbles continued to rise upon the surface of the heated broth. He made a move to touch the handle of the ladle but didn’t pick it up.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said quietly.

“You were acting differently that first day back, Phai. Both Mydei and I noticed it back then. If it was only a chance meeting between you, then I understand, but…”

Her voice faded out as Phainon plucked up a piece of cooked spinach with his chopsticks and stuffed it into his mouth, avoiding the question. Mydei and Castorice exchanged knowing glances across the table.

It was Mydei who finally spoke up. “You’re dodging the topic so poorly that I’m getting whiplash,” he drawled.

“Then it should be obvious what my opinion on it is.”

“Oh? We haven’t even touched on why he came to personally visit you at the kitchen—”

“Phainon,” Castorice entreated. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I was only curious. I shouldn’t have pressed you.”

When faced with Castorice’s contrite expression, even Phainon could not remain cold enough to withstand it. He relaxed and gave her a lopsided, reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry about it, Cas. Like I said before, it’s not a big deal. Our senior only wanted to clarify some comments he made during my evaluation.”

Castorice nodded, visibly relieved. “I understand.”

“Speaking of,” Phainon added as he fished up a piece of beef with his chopsticks, “how did your evaluation go? I assume they were both singing your praises.”

“They liked the concept…” she told them, her eyes lowering with a shy smile. A faint flush crept into her cheeks. “Aglaea was particularly complimentary about the sugar dome aspect.”

“As expected of our ace,” Phainon cooed. “Mydei has no idea what he’s talking about.”

“I’m just grateful I didn’t drop anything on the floor.”

“That only ever happens to the cursed one, don’t worry.”

“That only happened once,” Mydei griped, feeling slighted. “I still maintain that it was sabotage.”

“Sure, sure,” Phainon teased him.

The sound of Castorice’s giggles beside him loosened the last thread of tension. Before long, all three of them were laughing and trading barbs like they always did, their stomachs full and their mood light.

This was exactly what he needed. The tight coil lodged in his chest since speaking with Anaxa had finally begun to unwind. He listened to his friends try to guess the contents of the next upcoming challenge, and tossed in a few ideas of his own, when Phainon felt the vibration of his phone against his thigh.

He shifted in his seat and slid it out of his pocket, glancing at the screen.

Incoming call: ♥ CYRENE ♥

“I’ll be back in ten,” he told the others and indicated his phone. “Need to catch up with someone real quick.”

Mydei’s lips tipped up at the corners as he indulged in a lazy smile. “Tell Cy we said hello.”

Phainon nodded as he grabbed his jacket and quickly ducked out of the restaurant to find a quieter place to chat. By the time the door swung closed behind him, Phainon had swiped across the ‘answer’ button with his thumb.

The sidewalk outside was damp from an earlier drizzle. Few people crossed the street, leaving Phainon in near-solitude as he lifted the phone and Cyrene’s face came into view.

She was sitting cross-legged on her bed back home, pink hair tied in a messy knot, flyaway strands clinging to her cheeks as she peered into the lens. She looked like she’d lost track of time while typing away at her computer for hours. As usual.

The life of a streamer wasn’t easy.

“Finally!” Cyrene said to him, huffing with impatience. “I was starting to think you were going to ignore me.”

“I almost did. I was having dinner with friends. Mydei says ‘hey’ by the way.”

“He should tell me in person for once. Cas, too. Those faces are too perfect to be hindered by a screen between us.”

“I’ll pass along the message for you.”

When Cyrene smiled brilliantly at him, warmth bloomed inside Phainon’s chest. Seeing his friend like this, on his phone and in her room, was like opening a window into another world. His world. His Aedes Elysiae never seemed to change.

Nor the people in it.

“Phai… you look tired.” Bright blue eyes were awash with concern as Cyrene leaned toward the camera. “Are you not sleeping again?”

“I’m not sure the jetlag entirely left me since Okhema.”

“You need to rest more.”

“I’m trying, trust me. The stress doesn’t help.”

“Ohh, right, the competition. How’s that going for ya?”

Phainon exhaled a short burst of air to relax. Even from a distance of a thousand miles away, the sound of Cyrene’s voice had a calming effect on him. He never understood how she always knew exactly when he needed to let off some steam. He merely attributed it to an insane psychic power or knowing each other since they were toddlers.

“It’s not bad. It’s just… a lot.”

She tilted her chin at him through the screen. “What is it? Is someone being an ass? Is the pressure getting to you?”

Phainon hesitated, his gaze drifting toward the darkened street. Couples walked hand in hand and stuck close together as the misty fog clung to their faces and clothes. The rain was threatening to appear again and there was a sense of underlying haste to make it home before then.

“You remember that guy I told you about? From Okhema?”

“The one you met at that hidden bakery? Mister Gorgeous who gave you a total life crisis with a single smile—”

Phainon’s flush started at the top of his cheeks and rapidly spread to the tips of his ears. “That was said in confidence.”

“So, I’m right. It’s him?”

“Yeah, him.”

“What about him?”

He hesitated. Air scraped against his lungs, burning along the way, as the truth seemed unbearably hard to admit. Phainon took a deep breath to brace himself and then took the plunge.

“He’s one of the judges for the competition I’m in.”

Cyrene blinked once. Then again. Her entire body went still on the screen, like her brain had momentarily short-circuited. “Wait, what?” she exclaimed.

Phainon let out a bitter laugh as he leaned back on the wall behind him. “Turns out he’s Anaxagoras, actually.”

When she stared at him blankly, Phainon further explained, “He’s one of the most famous pastry chefs in the country, Cy. He’s been off the radar for a while, but apparently, he’s come back just in time to be a mentor for this competition.”

Cyrene’s mouth opened slowly in stunned silence. “That guy came back to be your mentor— and he’s part of the competition judging?”

Phainon nodded.

“And you had no idea about this when you met him?”

“None.” He rubbed absently at the back of his neck. “I only knew his name. Just… Anaxagoras. That’s all he gave me. I didn’t connect the dots until the day the details of the competition went up.”

For days, Phainon lived with the despair that he hadn’t known. Mydei had mocked him for having the ignorance of a village boy and, for once, Phainon hadn’t been able to escape the shame of that truth.

Had Anaxa thought him to be stupid, too? Is that why he hadn’t taken Phainon’s interest in him as sincere?

“Damn,” she said with a whistle. “That’s like… finding out your summer fling is secretly a rock star and now they’re staying in the same hometown as you and you keep running into them at the local convenience store—”

“You should lay off the novels a bit, Cy.”

“Actually, that was a television show reference, but more importantly— like hell will I give those up! Media consumption is my lifeblood, I’ll have you know.” Despite her fervent words, Cyrene chewed on her lower lip worriedly. “Even so… those were some insane odds of it happening.”

“I know. When he showed up at the Grove, I thought I was losing my mind. I felt like a complete idiot not knowing who he was when everyone else did.”

“Phai…” Cyrene murmured sympathetically. “You weren’t an idiot.”

“It was just that one time we met but we had this… moment, and it just stuck with me and now he’s here. And he's… him. An incredible pastry chef who is older, and more beautiful than he was the first time we met, and… now. Now, he’ll be judging me. Literally. Everything I do and say.”

“Do you still like him?”

Phainon didn’t answer right away. Of course he did. He wouldn’t be hovering on the edge of a mental breakdown every passing minute if he didn’t. He wouldn’t be avoiding his friends’ questions and questioning his entire future’s existence if he didn’t.

Finally, Phainon gave in. “Yeah… I do. I want to keep liking him even if I’m not supposed to.”

Cyrene’s lips curled up at the corners in an impish smile. “You’re allowed to like him, you know.”

“Not really, Cy,” he countered, feeling the familiar heaviness of guilt dragging him down. He sighed with utter misery. “Clearly there’s rules about this kind of thing. He’s our senior. There’s boundaries and…”

He thought of Anaxa and how the beautiful chef had scolded Phainon to focus on the competition and not on what Phainon wished would exist between them. Phainon wasn’t lacking common sense but when had someone’s heart ever listened to something like that?

“Since when has something annoying like rules or boundaries ever stopped you when you wanted something? That’s not the Phainon I know.”

Phainon opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“I am so serious, bro. You’re always brave when it matters. If this is something real to you, if you really, really like this guy, then you don’t have to ignore it. You just have to be yourself. Honest and straightforward like you are with anything you care about. That’s what he saw in you back in Okhema, right?”

Phainon mustered up a bittersweet smile. “That’s the scary part… being seen like that by him. I’m a little embarrassed now.”

“Yeah, well, suck it up. Many romantics before you did way more embarrassing things.”

His fingers flexed around his phone. An unexpected, yet heartfelt, laugh bubbled up and over from his throat. “I really did miss you, I guess.”

Cyrene smiled at him again, bright and easy this time as she saluted him with a wink. “Oh, I know. More importantly: are you feeling a bit better?”

“Not even a little, but I appreciate the therapy attempt.”

“Well, at least you got it all out to yours truly. If there’s anyone that’s gonna make sure you’re happy, it’s me.”

Phainon shook his head. “Go to bed, Cy.”

“Only because I want to and because I have a stream in the morning. Oh, and do tell Castorice to send me a kiss one of these days. Preferably in person.”

“I absolutely will not tell her that.”

Cyrene blew him a kiss before tapping her phone. “Night, Phai. Text me later.”

The screen went dark. Phainon stood there for a moment longer, letting the air cool the heat in his cheeks. He tucked the phone into his jacket pocket, exhaled, and turned to head back.

Then, he heard it. A barely audible shutter and—

Click.

Phainon blinked and looked up. Just a few feet away on the same sidewalk where he was standing, a familiar face lowered a phone and waved eagerly at him.

“Hyacine?” he uttered in sheer disbelief.

He remembered her clearly. Anaxa’s assistant who had helped him behind the counter at the bakery in Okhema. Her pink hair was tied in the same twin tails as before and bounced behind her as she strode toward him. Her phone screen— still open on a private chat DM— flashed briefly before she slipped the device into her coat pocket.

“Fancy seeing you here, Phainon!” came the young woman’s bright voice. “Ica, say hello to Anaxagoras’s friend. He’s very nice.”

Only then did Phainon notice the small (and surprisingly chubby in girth) white puppy she carried under one arm. Hyacine held Ica with pride and grinned at Phainon.

“I could say the same to you,” Phainon greeted her politely. “I apologize for not seeing you sooner. Ica, was it? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He lifted his hand up to scratch Ica behind the ears. As he did so, Hyacine’s grin broadened. “No worries. It can’t be helped when you’re absorbed in a call.”

The adrenaline in his system spiked. “Were you… standing over there long?”

“Long enough. Was that your girlfriend on the call?”

Phainon tried to rein in his reaction, clamping down on the urge to ask exactly how much she heard. Hyacine was a direct line to Anaxagoras, which made her either a potentially dangerous obstacle, or a potentially helpful ally. It was still too early to tell which.

“No,” Phainon said quickly, more sharply than he meant to. “She’s not— she’s just a friend. Cyrene’s a childhood friend of mine.”

Hyacine bounced Ica happily in her arms. “Relax. I’m not going to post it all over social media or anything like that. I just thought it was cute.”

“Oh…” Phainon didn’t know whether he felt relieved or not.

She tilted her head, studying him closely. “You look good, Phainon. A lot more put together here in the Grove.”

“I… didn’t realize I gave that impression.”

“Oh, you do,” she said airily. “You’ve got that certain quality about you. The one where it’s hard to look away from you whenever you’re around. You’re pretty good-looking, you know? I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

Something in her voice tugged at his curiosity, but Phainon would not dare sink his claws into that possible insinuation yet.

“Speaking of which, I’ve heard you made it in the Grove’s mentor competition. That’s incredibly impressive! Aglaea’s not an easy one to get a recommendation from. How are you doing so far?”

“I’m surviving,” he said nonchalantly, then amended it after a beat. “Kind of suffering.” Phainon’s smile faltered, just for a second, but Hyacine caught it.

“Thought so,” she murmured in a soft voice, “Anaxa’s been... strange lately, too.”

His heart thudded. “Strange?” he repeated.

“Distracted. Muttering to himself. Not that he’s ever been normal, but still.”

Phainon tried his best for a casual tone. “You two are close?”

“We’ve worked together for a few years. He picked me up during the last year I was at the Grove and told me I’d be wasting my talent under the tutelage of anyone else.” Hyacine stroked Ica’s head in a loving manner. “Whether that was true or not, he’s taught me pretty much everything I know now. I’ll be leaving his nest soon… which is why we’ve come back here.”

She glanced pointedly at Phainon, who could only laugh. “You’re assuming too much. I have a friend, even two, who can hold their ground in the same kitchen as me. Winning your boss’s favor isn’t an easy task.”

“I don’t think you will have as much trouble, but what do I know?”

Phainon shifted his weight and looked away from her. A quiet sense of disquiet settled inside his heart. “I appreciate your faith in me.”

“Don’t let him scare you off.”

Phainon kept his gaze on the floor. “What makes you think I’m scared?”

“Because you’re human. And he’s…” She trailed off, then waved a blithe hand. “A lot.”

Phainon laughed under his breath. It was soft, affectionate even, as he thought of Anaxa's genius in person. “Yeah. It seems like he is.”

Hyacine smiled at that, something satisfied in her expression, then nodded toward the restaurant. “It was nice getting to see you again, Phainon. I hope you won’t be a stranger if you ever visit Okhema again.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“And Phainon? You’re doing better than you think. Don’t lose heart.”

Her words weighed heavier on his mind than they should have. Phainon gave Hyacine a small nod— one that was not exactly a thank you, nor one of agreement— before taking a step back towards the restaurant. He’d left Mydei and Castorice alone for far too long.

After exchanging a polite farewell with Hyacine (along with a promise to bring a treat for Ica, when next they met) he pushed the door open and returned inside. Warmth met him instantly.

It hit him all at once in a sharp contrast to the quiet outside. For a long moment, Phainon stood there in the entryway, letting the mundane comfort of this place anchor him. The lively chatter. The out of date pop music.

It was strange how a single sentence could throw him off kilter more than an hour spent stressing inside the kitchen.

Castorice looked up first at his return, offering a small smile of acknowledgment as Mydei continued with the second half of his story. Phainon exhaled quietly, shedding the last of the tension gripping his shoulders, and slid into his earlier place beside her.

“There you are,” she said, gesturing toward Mydei. “We were starting to think Cyrene kidnapped you.”

“Through the screen? That’d be impressive.”

“Anything’s possible with how fast technology is moving these days.”

“Nobody would want to kidnap him anyway, Cas,” Mydei retorted, his fingers wrapped tight around a cup of beer. “He’d make his captors regret it the second he opened his mouth.”

It had finally reached that time in the evening when a belly full of good food would be chased with the alcoholic edge they all sorely needed. Phainon reached for a third cup his friends had already ordered for him and sipped at the beer inside.

“Phainon is quite the prize, you know. He’d be worth a lot to them.”

“This is why you’re my favorite, Cas,” Phainon told her, closing his eyes momentarily. “Never leave me.”

“It’d be Mydei who would rescue you, though.”

“I’ll get myself out, thank you.”

Before anyone else could retort, all three of their phones buzzed at once. The entire table went still in surprise. Phainon pulled his phone out from his pocket and glanced at the screen at the same time his friends did.

It was the class’s group chat. The sender was Aglaea, to their surprise, who rarely showed up in the chat except to post an occasional important announcement.

Like this one.

[Aglaea, 8:00PM]: Tomorrow’s challenge will begin at 10:00 a.m. sharp. Location: Marmoreal Market. Bring your sketchbooks and dress for possible rain.

“The outdoor marketplace?” Castorice read aloud, frowning.

“Sketchbooks?” Mydei swirled the cup of beer in his hand. “They’ll want us to start working on our ideas there then.”

Phainon reread the text carefully. The Marmoreal Market was the largest outdoor market situated on the edges of the Grove. He’d passed through it with the others a few times before, recalling the marketplace’s abundant stalls filled with fresh fruits and vegetables, live music, homemade crafts, and hard to find antique treasures.

“Looks like we’re going shopping,” Phainon murmured thoughtfully. His heart leapt once in excitement.

Castorice glanced up at him. “You seem happy about this.”

Phainon downed the rest of his beer in a single go. He waved to the passing owner, indicating he’d like another one. “I’ve got a good feeling about it, that’s all.”

Despite the suspicious looks his friends shot at him, Phainon didn’t explain why. His thoughts converged on what and, more importantly, who would be awaiting them at that marketplace tomorrow.

Anaxagoras. So close, yet untouchable. Even with Anaxa’s warning ringing in his mind— to focus, not to hope— Phainon couldn’t help the way the butterflies fluttered against his rib cage and fought to get free.

He wanted so badly to lay eyes on Anaxa again.

“This place is hell on earth,” Mydei muttered beside Phainon. He adjusted the designer sunglasses perched on his nose and sighed. “A big crowd and sunlight shining before noon. Hell, I tell you. I thought Aglaea said it would rain.”

“She clearly was mistaken.” The brisk air of the morning hit Phainon’s face with an icy chill, making him wince. He clutched a cup of bitter coffee he’d grabbed earlier from a corner stall that catered to early risers. Slightly hungover from the beers they’d chugged the night before, the black caffeine monstrosity in his hand did little to combat the ache behind his eyes.

His gaze wandered past the rows of stalls, some in the middle of still being prepped in preparation for the afternoon crowd to come. The competition zone had been marked by Aglaea at some point. Two long folding tables along with enough chairs for the ten of them, and the two mentors, abutted the far edge of the marketplace.

Nearby, Aglaea, beautiful and imposing in an ivory linen dress, scanned the crowd to mentally take attendance of the competitors slowly arriving at the meeting place. And standing beside her was the one who had Phainon’s attention ensnared onto him from the very start.

Phainon tightened his grip around his cup. Anaxa stood there with his arms folded, a black button-up shirt rolled up to the elbows to reveal the inked spirals of his forearm tattoo. Phainon’s gaze greedily drank in the path down to his wrist, where a red symbol had been etched into the back of his hand.

Maybe someday, Phainon would feel brave enough to ask what that symbol meant to Anaxa. The chef didn’t look at anyone in particular. Not until Phainon caught his eye.

For a heartbeat, neither one of them moved. Then Anaxa gave him the subtlest of nods, an acknowledgment that felt deeply intimate for how imperceptible it was to anyone else. His gaze didn’t linger on him long. In the next moment, Anaxa turned to speak in a low voice to Aglaea as if he hadn’t noticed Phainon at all.

Phainon looked down at his coffee. Heat bloomed in the center of his chest and extended outward, leaving him breathless. His attraction to Anaxa went beyond the physical but there was no denying how just the presence of the other was enough to make his heart race.

He didn’t realize Castorice was watching him until she nudged him with her elbow. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah,” he lied. “Just thinking ahead about what Aglaea’s got planned for us.”

“Ah, understandable.”

The time ticked down to ten o’clock on the dot. Aglaea stepped forward, her voice sounding sharp and clear as she addressed the ten of them who had gathered in the small area.

“Welcome to your next challenge. Today, you will be evaluated on your ability to select fresh ingredients to be used as a focal point for an impressive dessert. A master chef should have good eyes in the marketplace. The ripeness of a chosen fruit, the bold look of a flower, its potential to be used as a base, or as a decoration— these are all decisive factors that make a difference in the result of your dessert.”

Aglaea’s arm swept outwards, indicating the stalls that extended around them in every direction, as far as Phainon’s eyes could see.

“You will have full freedom to choose a fresh ingredient that inspires you. You will have twenty minutes to make your decision. Anaxagoras and I will observe you throughout this time but we are not permitted to give direct advice that would affect your selection. When the required time is up, you will return here and use the rest of the hour to draft a dessert concept based on your chosen selection.”

She tapped the face of the elegant gold watch hanging from her thin wrist. “Keep track of the time. You may begin.”

On the heels of her words, Phainon’s peers broke apart from the group to begin scouring the available stalls. Phainon lingered in place for just a moment longer, his thoughts tumbling over one another as he considered the terms of the challenge.

As well as the endless amount of possibilities. Rather than feeling overwhelmed, Phainon smiled wistfully to himself as inspiration struck.

Would this be considered cheating?

The source of his happiness returned to him in a bittersweet memory. Anaxa, who carefully chose his favorite desserts to place inside a box at Phainon’s request, had unwittingly given the young chef an edge in this particular challenge.

He knew what Anaxa personally liked, chosen for him by the hand of the master himself.

Should he take advantage of that? Phainon made his decision as he drifted toward a stall that specialized in exactly the ingredient he was looking for.

“Looking for something special?” the vendor asked him, wearing his best impress-the-customer welcoming smile.

Phainon nodded as found the display of figs easily. “For someone special,” he murmured, enjoying the look of delight that flashed across the vendor’s face. It was always fun to play around with others and the vendor didn’t disappoint as he indicated the best of the available selection for Phainon to pick from.

The skin of the figs were dark and velvety and soft to the touch. He weighed one in his palm, then another, his movements deliberately precise as he felt the unseen pressure of another’s eyes watching.

Instinct made him turn. Anaxa was standing a few stalls down, seemingly distracted by a crate of pears, but his gaze was unmistakably tilted in Phainon’s direction.

Phainon held up the fig and called out in a cheerfully light voice. “A good pick, right?”

Anaxa approached him, his hands clasped together lightly behind his back. “I’m not allowed to advise you.”

The lilting sound of his voice settled pleasantly on Phainon’s ears. He let it ripple over him and settle in the pit of his stomach to appease those ceaseless butterflies.

“Good thing I didn’t ask for advice, then. I’m just gauging the reaction of someone whose palate I trust implicitly.”

He handed the figs over to the vendor, who had them carefully wrapped and placed into a basket. Anaxa arched an eyebrow.

“It’s bold of you to assume you know my tastes at all.”

“You’re right,” Phainon admitted. “But, then again, I remember a particular master who presented me with a box of his favorites back in Okhema. How unkind it would be if I didn’t remember every single one of those delectable creations.”

Anaxa glanced at the wrapped figs, then looked back at Phainon. “Is that so?”

“I remember all of them, Anaxagoras, if you were curious.”

“I… was not.”

Phainon only smiled at his hesitant tone. Anaxa tore his gaze away, saying nothing for a long moment. As the vendor handed the basket over to Phainon, the chef cleared his throat once.

“Ripeness is tricky to judge with a fig. If it’s too soft, it collapses. If it’s too firm, the flavor won’t come out as you want it to. Are you sure you’ve picked wisely?”

“Oh, but isn’t that the challenge, my dear senior? Knowing exactly what’s right for me?”

The air between them shifted, as subtle as the catch of Anaxa’s breath that Phainon heard as he met the younger’s gaze for heartbeat too long.

Then Anaxa blinked and looked away. “I won’t tell you again. Focus.”

“Right,” Phainon answered, overly polite, as he continued to observe Anaxa’s every reaction. Hyacine’s words shadowed his rebellious urge to push his luck a fraction more. “After all, I wouldn’t want to disappoint my favorite mentor.”

Irritation pulsed as a vein at Anaxa’s temple. But, as he turned on his heel to walk away, Phainon saw the briefest instant when the corner of the chef’s mouth twitched, as if to fight back a smile.

Phainon watched him go. He was one of the earliest to finalize their selection and therefore, one of the first to make his way to the long table where the drafting station had been set up for the competitors. The notebook Aglaea suggested they bring was withdrawn from the duffel Phainon kept strapped over his back.

As he settled into one of the thin plastic chairs, he heard the murmurs of concentration all around him. Some of the students preferred to draw their drafted ideas on tablets or their phones. Others, like him, preferred the old-fashioned way of scratching the tip of a pen to paper. Despite individual preference, Aglaea required all submissions to be individually handed in on separate pieces of paper. Ideas could be started on the screen but they must end up on a paper she could handle with her own hands.

Phainon only got up briefly to fetch himself another cup of coffee. He drank in the hit of caffeine and nursed the headache that returned as he threw himself fully into the design process.

He glanced down at his notes and prayed for an answer to emerge. Picking the ingredient was actually the easiest aspect to this challenge. Designing the dessert he would eventually have to make was another gauntlet to survive entirely.

Phainon thought back to the first time he’d tasted the fig tart that had been given to him in that box. A traditional dessert at first glance, a bigger bite into its complex flavors of lavender and spice had kissed the dessert with an unforeseen edge that made it so uniquely Anaxa in style.

Anaxa was not afraid to take risks in his creations. Phainon needed to let his hesitation go and do the same.

Phainon began to sketch out his concept. He captured the basic image with bold strokes of his pen and scribbled in notes along the edges of the page. Notes about the flavors, and the wanted texture, and the build of it.

The draft took form with a surprising speed. He signed off on the design with a decisive click of his pen, then sat back.

Aglaea’s voice rang out. “One minute remaining!”

Around him, his peers erupted into a frantic chaos as they scrambled to polish the edges of their design. Some tore holes into the paper with the pressure they exerted with their pens. Others despaired as they rushed to write down all the notes that were spilling over from their imagination.

“Place your completed drafts beside me here,” Aglaea called out in the final moments, gesturing to the table beside her. “Anaxagoras and I will be reviewing them shortly.”

One by one, the competitors approached to place their paper into the collection bin provided. Phainon slipped his page in with the rest and retreated to a safe spot nearby to wait. Eventually, Mydei and Castorice came to join him.

They all watched as the mentors began to peruse the drafts one by one. Aglaea’s manicured nails tapped absently on the table as she read while Anaxa’s expression remained unreadable. They didn’t speak for many minutes, only swapping the pages between them, as they made a rare observation or two during the process.

A quiet discussion began between them as they formed two piles in front of them. The students kept a respectful distance away to give them privacy but they all watched the mentors with hungry eyes. Phainon did, too. His eyes tracked Anaxa’s hands as he tried in vain to guess where his draft had gone. In which pile was it?

Aglaea and Anaxa were not satisfied with the initial distribution. They spoke in low voices, pointing out one draft over another, as some swapped places. Aglaea flipped through the drafts with her usual efficiency. Anaxa, on the other hand, was more deliberate.

His brows were furrowed as he focused on each draft in turn. His hand paused just slightly longer on one page in particular. He didn’t look up, didn’t smile, didn’t say a word. But the faintest tilt of his head, and the twitch of his lips, told Phainon a different story.

Only Phainon would have noticed, so attuned he was to Anaxa’s every minute reaction. Phainon swallowed hard, his heart fluttering with a faint, flickering sense of hope.

Eventually, Aglaea stood up and addressed the waiting group with a serene smile. “Thank you all for your hard work today and for being so patient.”

The students remained silent. Even Mydei looked a bit nervous as Aglaea glanced at each one of them in turn.

She continued, “To prepare you for the execution phase of your drafted desserts, each mentor will be selecting five of you for one-on-one consultation sessions. These will take place tomorrow.”

Astonishment rippled through the group of competitors. They began to whisper excitedly, their chatter growing louder as Aglaea’s words sank in.

Individual sessions. One on one.

“You’ll be notified of your assigned mentor via individual text message later this evening,” she added. “Please come prepared to discuss your draft in depth at the time scheduled for you. Congratulations on another challenge successfully completed. We are both very pleased by your efforts.”

That was the end of it, a dismissal latent in her words as Aglaea collected her selected pile of drafts.

All around him, the noise of the crowd and of the marketplace itself picked up in volume. Mydei and Castorice were speaking to him but Phainon barely heard their voices as his attention converged on the mentor’s table. Specifically, it honed in on the five pages that Anaxagoras held within the grip of his slender, pretty hand.

Phainon didn’t know whose pile his draft had landed in, but he knew exactly which one he hoped it would be.

Chapter Text

[Aglaea 7:30PM]: Phainon, you have been assigned to Anaxagoras for your individual consultation. Your meeting time is set for 11:00 a.m.

Phainon hadn’t expected him to be there already.

The soft click of the kitchen door as it closed behind him barely registered in his mind. It was swallowed by the sudden, surging quiet of the room, like the breath held just before a kiss. Phainon caught sight of Anaxa and faltered.

Sunlight filtered in through the upper windows, casting light upon the tiled floor and catching the edges of stainless steel appliances. Anaxa stood alone at the metal prep table. He was attired in a pristine set of chef whites that suited him with a startling perfection. The starched white cloth was spotless, every fold neat, every seam exact. It was as precise as Anaxa’s concentration as the chef bent forward to scribble notes upon a sheet of paper.

The pen tapped once, twice, against the table as he thought. Several strands of Anaxa’s mint-colored hair had slipped loose from an otherwise meticulous ponytail, in an act seemingly as rebellious as the owner.

Anaxa hadn’t noticed Phainon yet, focused as he was on his writing. He studied the paper intently, keeping it trapped beneath his hand as if it might escape if he didn’t anchor it. Only at that moment did Phainon recognize it as his very own draft.

The pen strokes of his design were being dissected under Anaxa’s scrutiny. The margins were overflowing with pointed annotations jotted down by the chef’s hand.

A feeling of giddiness pressed behind Phainon’s lungs. He stood motionless in the doorway, torn between the impulse to announce himself or simply watch, fascinated.

The chef’s eyes roamed over the page. His brows drew in, creasing in a way Phainon was realizing meant he’d become utterly absorbed in his thinking. Phainon had seen this before during the previous round. It was a complete immersion into Anaxa’s world, fading everything else out until only his inner thoughts remained.

Anaxa’s thumb skimmed over a margin where Phainon had scribbled his notes. It was only a small, absent gesture but it made Phainon’s breath catch. Then, as if finally sensing the presence of another, Anaxa straightened and looked up.

Their eyes met. Heat pulsed through Phainon’s veins.

“You’re late,” Anaxa stated, his voice flat. Softness vanished from his features as he retreated behind a veil of professionalism that Phainon could not touch.

Phainon pushed down his disappointment and sauntered forward. With a grin on his face, he joked, “On the contrary, aren’t I early by a good—” Phainon checked his watch, just to be sure. “—two minutes? I did my best since I had a very meaningful reason to rush here.”

That earned him a sidelong glance. “Which would be?”

“I wanted to see you.”

Anaxa’s lashes lowered, shielding an unreadable expression, as he turned away. His attention returned to the draft as if Phainon had said nothing at all. “Two minutes is still late.”

“I apologize for keeping you waiting, Chef,” he said breezily, though even to his own ears the words rang hollow. Phainon stepped closer, his shoulder brushing lightly against Anaxa’s as he slid into the space beside him and leaned back against the prep table’s edge. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Were you spending the time admiring my brilliant draft?”

Anaxa’s expression didn’t so much as twitch. “It’s competent.”

“Competent? Wow, careful, you’re going to make me blush.”

“I doubt that.”

Amusement tugged at the corners of Phainon’s mouth. His gaze dropped to the page beneath Anaxa’s fingers, looking over the scribbled notes and how Anaxa’s hand moved reflexively across the paper.

The blood pounding in his ears was loud. There was a scent that clung to Anaxa’s clothes, sweet and faintly medicinal, and Phainon fought back the urge to lean in closer.

“So,” Phainon murmured, keeping his tone light even as his pulse spiked, “what’s the verdict, Chef? Did you choose mine because it was terrible enough that you felt the need to personally fix it? Or were you playing favorites after all?”

Anaxa didn’t immediately reply. He pressed the page flat with his palm, smoothing it with slow fingers. “Phainon,” he said, quiet and clear.

There was something about the way his name sounded in Anaxa’s voice that snatched the breath right out of Phainon’s lungs.

“You have raw talent. The reason I chose your draft is because I know what to do with it. Because I know what to do with you.”

Phainon stilled, caught off guard. For half a second, he forgot how to move. He wasn’t even sure he’d heard Anaxa right. He looked up and searched the chef’s face but Anaxa’s expression remained maddeningly composed.

Maybe Phainon was foolish for even wondering. Still, heat crept up his neck as Anaxa continued to speak.

“Aglaea would not have known what to do with this design,” Anaxa said, his distaste for the fellow mentor obvious. “She’s too much of a traditionalist and would squander your potential with rules that were popular decades ago.”

His hand shifted and a fingertip traced along one of Phainon’s penned lines of the sketch.

“You need someone who will encourage you to push forward, and who will push back only when it is needed.”

Phainon swallowed. The tip of his tongue swept across suddenly dry lips. “So, you’re telling me that you picked me because… you think you can handle me?”

“No,” Anaxa corrected. The faintest hint of a smile ghosted across his lips. “I picked you because no one else can.”

Phainon’s heart gave one hard, lurching beat that left him reeling. He shouldn’t read into it. He knew he shouldn’t. Those words should not have made his stomach swoop like this, as if he’d just stepped off of a ledge into free fall.

He couldn’t find the ground, his heart racing, as he searched Anaxa’s face for any hint of the beauty’s thoughts beyond the flawlessly calm exterior.

Anaxa glanced away. His smooth voice was underpinned with a clear authority as he explained, “The next round will officially be the first. As such, it will feature an elimination at the end for those who cannot keep up. We’re going to work on the design you’ve made. The fig soufra is an acceptable base to begin with but it must be improved. With what is at stake, I do not want to see anything ‘safe’ made by your hands again.”

Phainon didn’t answer right away, his chest still humming as he lingered on what he’d heard. ‘Because no one else can.’ A traitorous ember of hope refused to burn out.

“Phainon,” Anaxa drew him back with a call of his name. He tapped the corner of the draft with the end of his pen. “Let us begin.”

He could not continue to hold onto those hopes, not when Anaxa had already slipped the mantle of authority back over his shoulders.

Phainon exhaled slowly, rolled back his shoulders, and committed himself to the path waiting for him ahead. He shifted focus. The cool surface of the metal countertop grounded him, reminding him of where he was. The kitchen was every bit of his domain as much as it was Anaxa’s.

Anaxa gestured to the design, where Phainon had sketched the structure of a phyllo pastry layered over a base of fig jam. “Phyllo and fig are expected in this dessert. If you intend to build up from there, you will require an extra component to emphasize their reason for being there.”

Phainon’s fingertips brushed over the edge of the paper as he tilted it toward himself, studying his own work with fresh eyes. “Contrasting flavors, you think? Something to offset the sweetness of the jam, but still light enough to keep the pastry from tasting heavy.”

“There is a similar principle you may also consider.”

“What’s that?”

“You can also introduce tension with textural duality.” Anaxa jotted down a short note on the outer line of the drawing. “You’ll have a crisp exterior in the final bake, so consider pairing that result with something soft to create textural interest.”

“What about adding in fig custard?” Phainon rubbed idly at his chin, his eyes narrowing in thought. “It would slice cleanly but the velvety texture would be the contrast you’re talking about.”

“You can also prepare something like a whipped ricotta layer. It will retain enough structure to hold its own and not overpower the fig already built into the phyllo layers.”

Phainon’s mind was already spinning with infinite possibilities. The words he spoke tumbled out fast. “What if I also changed the brown butter I use? I could steep it with dried orange peel beforehand, so when I brush it onto the phyllo layers, you’ll be able to taste the citrus beneath all the other sweetness.”

When Phainon looked up, he found Anaxa watching him closely. His head was slightly tilted, his expression hard to read. That assessing gaze roamed over Phainon’s face until, at last, the faintest glint of approval lit up in his eyes.

“Good.”

Warmth surged into Phainon’s chest. He nearly laughed in relief. “You think so?”

“Yes, it’s better than I expected.”

A thrill danced down Phainon’s spine. He saw it again, the smallest trace of a smile that Anaxa hid by turning away, as if the draft suddenly required the chef’s full attention.

“With your composition and flavors decided on, there is one other component in which you can press an advantage,” Anaxa told him. “Do you know it?”

Phainon’s body vibrated with excitement but his mind was clear. “Composition and flavors are done,” he murmured, “but the final look isn’t enough. If I want this to stand out… it will come down to presentation.”

He recalled Cas’s sugar dome from the preliminary round and the way the judges’ eyes had lit up when it caught the light. It was flashy and memorable. Without asking, Phainon reached for Anaxa’s pen.

“If I form it into a spiral, maybe,” he muttered while sketching out the idea with quick ink strokes. “Something like a rose. I can use the phyllo layers to shape it so it blooms outwards like a flower when it bakes.”

Anaxa leaned in. The gesture was slight but Phainon felt it, the other’s proximity that brought warmth near and made his breath catch. Anaxa’s brow lifted as he examined the design.

Phainon didn’t look away. Quiet and anxious, he whispered, “Too much?”

“No,” Anaxa murmured back. His gaze lingered on the sketch. “It’s bold enough. More importantly, it’s yours.”

Something about the way he said yours made the world tilt beneath Phainon’s feet. He didn’t know what he expected— sarcasm, maybe, or a sharp critique— but it wasn’t this, not a silken voice that wrapped around Phainon’s potential and coaxed it to come out.

Anaxa liked his ideas. Phainon’s natural flair for creativity only needed the guidance of the right mentor to lead him in the right direction.

Their hands moved at the same time. Their fingers brushed, skin to skin, as Anaxa reached for the pen. Phainon stilled at the exact same moment that Anaxa looked up. That cool, even gaze met his own and held.

It was Anaxa who eventually broke the silence. “Let’s see what you can do with it. Start with making the phyllo layers from scratch. I’ll observe.”

“Yes, Chef.” Phainon’s obedient reply was edged with a little recklessness, a crooked smile giving his delight away as he rolled up his sleeves to the elbow.

He knew the layout of this kitchen well enough to fetch what he needed without hesitation. Flour, vinegar, sugar, and several ingredients were placed out on the surface of his usual station. Phainon moved with a quiet focus, with that same purposeful grace he always carried when he let the noise in his head fall away and let instinct take over.

He set to work immediately, all the while remaining exceedingly aware of Anaxa’s hovering presence nearby. The slender chef didn’t miss a single detail as he lounged against the edge of the prep table and watched Phainon’s practiced movements.

Phainon added the ingredients carefully into the mixing bowl, mindful to measure each portion precisely. Unlike cooking, baking was an exact science of proportions. There was very little room for error.

“You’re watching me like a hawk,” Phainon observed aloud as he stirred the mixture together with a large spoon. “Are you nervous I’ll embarrass you?”

“I don’t get nervous.”

“Liar,” Phainon scoffed, under his breath. “Everyone gets nervous at some point.”

Anaxa’s mouth twitched slightly. He said nothing more as Phainon finished with the dough mixture and moved on to dusting the surface of his station with flour. The dough was coaxed out of the bowl and placed in the middle for Phainon to start kneading it. He folded the dough in half and pressed it down firmly with the palm of his hand.

Anaxa clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Are you in a rush to go somewhere? You’re being too forceful.”

Phainon softened the pressure of his hands, taking more care with the way he folded the dough upon its other half. “Better?”

Anaxa didn’t answer. He stepped forward instead and reached for Phainon’s hands. “Allow me.”

Phainon froze as Anaxa’s fingers closed around his wrists, guiding them with an unexpected firmness.

“You want smooth, elastic dough,” the chef explained in a low voice. “Overwork it and you will end up with a final result that is unpleasantly chewy, rather than the delicate texture you want. Exert a gentle, but consistent, pressure when you knead the phyllo.”

The cool sensation of his fingers worsened the heat flowing through Phainon’s veins. They felt rougher than they looked, Anaxa’s slender fingers punctuated with callouses that gave away the chef’s many years spent working with his hands in the kitchen.

Phainon glanced at the back of Anaxa’s hand. Beneath the red tattoo, he could see the raised ridges of burn scars peppering the pale flesh. Expertise did not come without a high cost of trial and error.

“Do you understand?” The question came out quiet and even. Anaxa had already pulled away, but the sensation of his hand against Phainon’s lingered like an afterimage burned into his nerves.

“If I say I don’t, will you correct me again?”

“Don’t count on it. I’ll have half a mind to demote you to a lost cause instead.”

“Anything but that, Chef.”

Phainon’s grin returned in full force at the sound of Anaxa’s flat, yet undeniably amused, tone. He returned to kneading, choosing to work over the dough more gently as evidence that he had been listening.

When the dough was resting under its cloth, he ran his hands beneath the running water of the faucet to cleanse away the remnants of flour and leftover oil. “The dough needs to rest for thirty minutes to rest. So, I was thinking…”

“No.”

Undeterred by the instant dismissal, a playful mischief snuck its way into Phainon’s voice. “If I’m to be your future protégé, Chef, shouldn’t I get to learn more about you?”

Anaxa shot him a look, one that spoke volumes of his annoyance every time Phainon dared to say something foolish. “How presumptuous. The outcome of this competition has yet to be decided.”

“I could just look it up online, of course. There’s plenty of information out there. Although,” Phainon teased him, “the personal interviews are disappointingly scarce.”

There was a noticeable hitch in Anaxa’s breathing. “You’ve been looking up what?”

“Honestly, though, there’s no fun in that. I want to learn more about you from you. I have a proposal, if you’ll hear me out.”

Anaxa regarded him with an open suspicion. Phainon didn’t mind. He gathered up what he needed to begin making the fig jam— lemon, sugar, and water, as well as the figs he’d bought from the market the day before– and set them out neatly on the table. A stainless steel saucepan was placed on a burner.

“I thought of a game. A question for a question. I ask one, then you ask one. No skipping and no lying from either of us.”

“You expect me to waste time on something that juvenile?”

“Yes,” Phainon replied shamelessly. He chopped up the figs into fine pieces, mindful to check the ripeness of each one as he did so. They were exactly right, just as he’d guessed they’d be. “You’re curious, too, aren’t you? You can ask me anything you want.”

“I have no particular inclination to ask anything.”

“That’s fine. I don’t mind doing all the asking.”

Anaxa was quiet, saying nothing as he observed Phainon squeeze lemon juice into the saucepan with its rind tossed in right after. He added the sugar, water, and finally the figs, stirring it all together until the mixture combined to simmer over the flame.

Eventually, Anaxa spoke. “Two questions only. With a condition first.”

Even that was enough to please Phainon. He increased the temperature of the burner to a hotter setting before quickly stepping to the side to rinse his hands. “Name it.”

“Who asks the questions is contingent on the success of your dessert today.”

The atmosphere of the kitchen— the sounds of appliances humming, even the fragrant sweetness beginning to perfume the air from the simmering jam— all dulled in the presence of Anaxagoras. He consumed the whole of Phainon’s attention as he leaned against the prep table, his fingers drumming an unknown melody on the stainless steel.

Anaxa studied Phainon with the kind of scrutiny that made him breathless. Phainon couldn’t look away. He listened to the rhythm of those fingers, completely caught up in Anaxa’s enchantment.

“So… only if I succeed?” Phainon asked softly.

“If your phyllo pastry is perfectly made,” Anaxa said, his gaze flicking pointedly in the direction of the resting dough, “you’ll earn one question. If there’s even the smallest flaw, the question becomes mine and you’ll forfeit your chance.”

In other words, there would be no room for amateur mistakes.

Phainon’s throat tightened. “There’s still a second opportunity,” he reminded Anaxa, with a note of hope in his voice. “Isn’t there?”

“Yes, with a flawless fig soufra bake, you may ask again.”

The terms were set. Admittedly, they were not tilted in Phainon’s favor. He understood that if he failed either test, if his timing was off or if the dessert fell short of expectations, then the questions he longed to ask of Anaxa would never be answered.

The flutter he felt inside his chest had little to do with nerves. Rather, it had everything to do with the man observing him, as well as the pressure of being seen by him. What he’d confessed to Cyrene had been true: there was nothing more disarming than to have Anaxa’s judgmental eyes on him, surveying his every move.

Anaxa stood nearby, his arms folded, one hip resting against the table’s edge. That mesmerizing gaze was unrelenting on Phainon as it followed everything he did. Not missing a single flick of his wrist as Phainon reached for his resting dough.

A soft rustle of cloth revealed the risen dough waiting underneath it. Phainon touched it lightly with his fingertips. The dough was soft and pliable, yielding to the gentlest press. It was a supple texture with just the faintest elasticity. A very good start.

Beneath Anaxa’s watchful gaze, Phainon dusted the counter with flour again. Every detail sharpened beneath his intense concentration. The faint scent of lemon that lingered in the air. The soothing sound of the dough as it was stretched beneath the rolling pin.

The layers had to be impossibly thin, nearly transparent to an expert’s eye. Technical skill was paired with precision as Phainon coaxed the dough to become thinner and thinner. It reached the point of being ghostly, so dangerously delicate that even one wrong move could tear it. As he worked with each layer in turn, he placed a strip of parchment paper in between to keep it neatly separated and set it aside.

When the layers were finished, he turned to the stove. The pan hissed softly as the butter melted. Brilliant gold transformed into a deep amber as a delicious nutty aroma filled the kitchen. As promised earlier, Phainon remembered to steep the butter with the unusual addition of orange peel.

Anaxa said nothing the entire time, but his silence was its own rewarding kind of encouragement. Only when the browned butter was ready and Phainon moved on to the next step of brushing each layer carefully with it, did Anaxa speak.

“You’ve earned your first question. You may ask.”

Phainon didn’t answer right away. He continued brushing the pastry, careful not to tear a single edge. The question had been sitting on his tongue since the moment he’d proposed the game but now, with permission given to ask it, the words were lodged at the back of his throat.

They were still practically strangers. If Phainon was presumed to be “too nosy” about the chef’s private life, would he drive Anaxa away instead of closer to him?

“I was wondering…” Phainon said carefully, keeping his eyes fixed to the brush in his hand, “what were you doing during those two years when you disappeared from the public eye?”

It was a curiosity many possessed, including Phainon’s closest friends. The response was given to Phainon without a single moment’s hesitation.

“I traveled,” Anaxa said simply. “Hyacine and I ventured north to Grevena and studied the locals’ cuisine in Aidonia. We spent three months in a bakery tucked behind a market in Corinth. In Dragonbone City, we lived with a family who made sagelore berry wine and sourdough in the same oven. I learned more from them than I ever could by staying in Okhema and reading culinary journals.”

Phainon looked up in time to see a glimmer of softness overtake Anaxa’s features. His single jeweled eye glinted with an affection lit up from within as he reminisced about his travels.

“Theory and tradition have their place in formal education. When I teach, I choose experience above all else. Since Hyacine was willing to come along and see everything as I did, she has become a remarkable student of mine.”

Phainon carefully picked up the layers of phyllo and twisted them into a shape resembling a bloomed rose. Gently, he placed the rosettes in the middle of a greased round pan. All the while, he thought about the way Anaxa had said we.

It was the warmth and weight of it, as if Anaxa considered his students an extension of himself. The ones he chose to take under his wing, like Hyacine, would live and learn and love with the same passion for the culinary arts he possessed.

Phainon found himself searching Anaxa’s profile. Those elegant features were composed, peaceful even, as his gaze lingered on Phainon’s moving hands.

It was strange, Phainon thought. This man was distant, sharp-tongued, and so difficult to read. And yet, everything about his style of instruction said he cared deeply for his students’ education.

He could have kept Hyacine with him inside his own bakery, subjecting her to only his ideas and style of baking. Instead, he took her with him out into the world to learn for herself. When he’d noticed flaws in Phainon’s lemon choux pastry, he pointed out ways for him to improve his craft rather than dismissing it all as an avoidable mistake.

The public might decry Anaxagoras as a difficult personality— someone who did not fit in, who broke beyond limits to carve out a world of his own— but Phainon saw something more in him. He saw a man who chased freedom. A master at his craft who wanted to establish a new language of innovation, and who was searching for others who could speak it with him.

With the phyllo pastry step completed, Phainon turned to the fig mixture beginning to boil on the stove. The heady scent filled the space with a cozy warmth so reminiscent of his mother’s kitchen back home. He strained out the lemon peel from the saucepan and kept stirring it gently to keep the sugar from burning at the bottom. When the mixture was ready, Phainon poured it slowly over the layered pastry to allow it to sink in and settle.

For the final garnish, he sprinkled a handful of leftover fig pieces on top. Phainon placed the pan on a tray and hefted it up to slide it into the oven. He set the timer, stepped back with a sigh, and prepared himself for the wait.

It would take time for the soufra to bake. Seemingly endless seconds that Phainon chose as a time to keep his hands busy rather than stealing glances at Anaxa. He wiped down the counter’s surface out of habit, only looking up when he heard Anaxa speak.

“Aglaea and I have made a small wager this time around.”

The wipe cloth paused in mid-air. Phainon blinked, certainly not expecting to hear that. “You two are betting on the competitors?”

“She believes all of the students under her wing will pass this round. I believe all of mine will.”

Anaxa asserted his stance with such confidence that a disbelieving laugh escaped Phainon before he could stop it. “I’m a bet to you then?”

“More like a calculated risk,” Anaxa replied, without a single change in his expression. “One that I have chosen deliberately.”

“I don’t know whether that kind of faith in me should make me happy or terrify me.”

“You will not disappoint me.”

That kind of gutsy assertion was humbling. Phainon’s fingers enclosed around the cloth, squeezing it unconsciously tight. “How can you say that so easily?” he breathed out.

Anaxa’s unwavering gaze did not leave Phainon’s flushed face. The oven timer ticked down until finally, it chimed out loud.

Phainon spun around quickly, his heart fluttering anxiously as he approached the oven. He slid on his oven mitts and took out the tray carefully. He set it down on the counter.

Steam rose into the air and Phainon was relieved to see the rosette-shaped pastry had bloomed as intended. The layers were golden brown and crisp around the edges.

Then, he saw it. The center of the soufra had collapsed, weighed down by an uneven pour of the jam mixture. The phyllo had held its shape but it was bogged down by moisture, no doubt overloaded by both the addition of the butter and the additional jam.

His stomach dropped. Phainon stared down at the pastry, a sharp sting of disappointment dragging his mood down. He’d been so close. “I… messed it up.”

The chance at a second question was lost.

Anaxa stepped forward before the last word left Phainon’s mouth. He examined the final result with a critical eye, his silence lasting long enough to keep Phainon anxiously on edge. “It is undoubtedly flawed,” he agreed.

Phainon swallowed hard. His eyes burned but he resisted the urge to rub at them. “I know. I failed the test.”

“Failed? I wouldn’t say that.”

Confused, Phainon watched as Anaxa selected a tiny tasting fork from the display of clean utensils. The chef prodded at the pastry, pushing the soggy layers around to see the extent of the damage.

“What do you mean?” Phainon questioned, not following Anaxa’s meaning. “I clearly poured it incorrectly—”

“This is why I did not want that old bat to get her hands on you. Mourning an incorrect application of technique is not the point of this challenge. Aglaea would have you in despair because of it, but I do not consider this outcome a failure.”

“Chef…”

“You tried something bold, Phainon. You were willing to take the risk to experiment and try something new you’ve never attempted before. It is not your fault that you merely lack the experience. As long as you are willing to try, that is all I expect from you. Such efforts will never be a failure in my eyes.”

Phainon turned his head and discreetly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Does this mean I get my second question?” he mumbled.

He could hear the amusement in Anaxa’s voice as the chef answered. “Yes.”

Phainon exhaled shakily and leaned against the edge of the table. There were a dozen things he could ask but there was only one that mattered the most to him right now.

“Then… what would you have asked me?”

Anaxa’s fingers, which had resumed tapping the table’s surface again, stopped abruptly. His jaw tensed as he chose his words with care. “Your question is… to know my question?”

“I know you said you wouldn’t have asked anything, but I don’t believe that. If I’d truly lost our game, you would have asked something. I’m sure of it.”

Anaxa looked at him, truly looked at him. When he did, the vulnerability that Phainon saw there, flickering in an instant, made his chest ache.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Phainon whispered, daring to test his luck.

“Yes, I suppose you are.”

“Then, please. Ask me.”

Reluctance shadowed Anaxa’s features. A trace of guilt was visible, as if he felt ashamed that Phainon had glimpsed something he hadn’t meant to show. Anaxa’s fingers curled inward until the polished nails dug into the flesh of his palms.

As if eye contact was suddenly too much to bear, he looked beyond Phainon’s shoulders and fixed his gaze on a spot only he could see.

“I…” he began, then faltered. He quickly glanced at Phainon again, whose pulse escalated the instant their eyes met.

Phainon sucked in a breath as he became witness to something unguarded. A brief flash of unease that conveyed Anaxa’s wish that Phainon hadn’t asked at all.

“I suppose,” Anaxa said softly, “I did wonder about something.”

Phainon leaned forward instinctively, drawn to him like a moth to flame. “Yes?”

“Why… do you flirt with me?”

Phainon froze. A breathless laugh slipped out, soft and utterly shocked. “You’re joking. You’re— well, you. Why wouldn’t someone flirt with you? I mean—”

Anaxa didn’t smile. He looked down, his long lashes casting a shadow over his cheeks as he avoided Phainon’s gaze.

Deep within, something inside Phainon cracked. “...Are you actually serious?”

“No one has ever liked me like that before.”

Anaxa’s voice wasn’t bitter as he answered. It wasn’t even wistful, like he’d wished reality had been something different. He was merely being honest.

Phainon stared at him, gutted. His heart beat too fast as his mind tumbled over itself trying to make sense of what he was hearing.

“Anaxa— no, Anaxagoras,” Phainon pleaded, correcting himself when he saw the flash of annoyance at the nickname, “You’re… absolutely brilliant. I don’t just mean how skilled you are— because that’s amazing, too— but it’s… you. You have an aura that doesn’t give a sh— a second thought, I mean, about what people think about you. Do you have any idea how many people would kill to walk through this world like that?”

Anaxa didn’t reply, but his lashes fluttered just once. He was listening.

Phainon rushed on, “You expect people to rise up to your level and somehow, that makes them believe they can. They want to believe they can. Including me. You make me want to prove myself to you. That’s the kind of hold you have on— on everyone.”

On me, was what he wanted to say so badly.

He hadn’t even brought up another obvious point yet: that Anaxagoras was stunningly, undeniably gorgeous to look at. But, when it came to that matter, shyness held Phainon’s tongue in check. He felt like his edges had been rubbed raw from what he’d already dared to say.

Anything more would be too embarrassing. Too personal.

Especially when the silence that followed his words felt even more charged than before. Anaxa lifted his head and met Phainon’s gaze directly. The force of it made Phainon’s breath hitch.

“I have no intention,” Anaxa said, in a voice barely above a whisper, “of playing favorites.”

Phainon’s shoulders slumped a bit. He released a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I know.”

“Flirting is pointless.”

Phainon winced, then muttered under his breath, “Well, I wouldn’t say pointless…”

It was said too low for the other to hear, or perhaps, Anaxa simply chose not to respond to it. The chef had already turned away, regaining his composure as if it had never left his side for a single moment.

Oh, how Phainon envied that ability.

“Come here and taste this. I wish to hear your opinion on it.”

Anaxa pressed the tasting fork into the still warm fig soufra. The golden pastry gave way easily, flaking apart to reveal a generous portion of jam and phyllo mixed in between. Without looking at Phainon, he held the fork up expectantly.

He treated this moment as if this were any other tasting with any other student. Could Phainon pretend it was just that, too? Even if his heart was racing so fast that he felt as if it might burst?

Phainon stepped forward, drawn in by the gesture alone. The space between them narrowed until he was close enough to see every rise and fall of Anaxa’s pulse as it bobbed beneath his swan-like throat. Phainon leaned in and let his lips close around the bite.

The pastry melted instantly against his tongue. It was buttery and delicate, with the fig jam tasting too tangy thanks to the orange he’d included. His eyes fluttered shut for only a moment.

He chewed slowly, swallowed, and opened his eyes again. “It’s… not bad. Almost too much of a contrast, in hindsight. The fig is robust on its own so the orange bites back too hard. If I could do it again, I’d try a different fruit. Maybe lessen the proportions of the jam as well.”

“It was a successful experiment,” Anaxa agreed. There was a softness to his voice that hadn’t been there before. “The end result was not what you intended but, even so, you have learned from it and can try it again.”

He took the fork back with a flick of his wrist and placed it gently on the counter.

“When the next phase begins, you will be expected to bake this again for myself and Aglaea to judge. You have until then to reconsider the changes you wish to make to the design.”

Phainon remained by his side, unwilling to break the closeness as he listened. He moved in slowly and stepped just a fraction closer to his crush. It wasn’t enough to overstep the bounds but it was enough to let Anaxa feel it.

This close, Phainon could appreciate how small Anaxa was in comparison to him. The chef’s jacket was tailored to fit him, emphasizing the narrowness of his waist. Phainon imagined he could fit the span of it between his two hands.

Half of a smile flickered across Phainon’s lips. “If I keep improving at this rate, you’ll not just win your wager, but this future protégé might even sweep the entire competition.”

Anaxa glanced sidelong at him. “You already have the recipe you need to succeed. I suggest you do your best and do so.”

“I have the recipe, but what about my mentor’s faith? Do you still believe you have a good handle on me?”

Anaxa looked at him. Really looked at him. The gleam of the kitchen lights were reflected in that sole eye that gazed at Phainon with an unmistakable confidence. Anaxa’s lips quirked upwards.

“Yes, though I’m afraid there is no one who can control that glib tongue of yours.”

Phainon didn’t know whether it was the dulcet cadence of the voice he heard, or the way Anaxa was still looking at Phainon with such certainty, that caused the room to feel so much warmer.

It was the kind of heat that gathered in the chest, behind the ribs. He wanted to say something clever. Maybe even throw another quip back just to keep Anaxa on his toes, but his mind— normally so quick— stalled under the weight of the other man’s gaze.

Anaxa didn’t look away. His fingers brushed against the counter, another idle rhythm dancing to an unsaid tune Phainon was only just beginning to understand.

“Chef…” he began, only for Anaxa to cut him off.

“Consultation time is up. I have another session to prepare for.”

Phainon took a deep breath. The careful boundary slid back in place, reasserting itself in the moment before he’d dared to step yet another toe beyond it.

Had Anaxa sensed it?

If so, Phainon could not blame him. His hold on propriety was slipping with every second he lingered so close to the one he wanted. The scent that emanated naturally from Anaxa was too alluring, especially to one who wanted to pick it apart and find out what the beautiful chef’s true essence was like.

If only he could find out that secret and keep it close to himself, away from the knowledge of anyone else.

“I see,” Phainon said, softer than intended. “I suppose I’m not allowed to ask who else you are mentoring?”

“Why not? The next one is your female friend.” 

Anaxa said it lightly, almost as if he dared Phainon to comment on it.

Phainon grinned as he refused to fall for the provocation. He pushed off the edge of the table and straightened up to finish tidying up the rest of his station. “Cas should be thrilled. She adores you.”

Anaxa only nodded. His attention was seemingly elsewhere as he placed the tasting fork into the sink. “Make sure you cool the remainder of the soufra properly before storing it. I’d hate for all that effort to go to waste.”

“Yes, Chef.”

Phainon took his time to scrub down the counter and stacked up the used bowls to be washed later. He didn’t dare look up, not even as he heard the retreating footsteps that carried the whole of his heart away.

When Anaxa reached the door, he paused. He glanced back at Phainon just once. “You did well. When the competition begins, remember to concentrate.”

Phainon raised his head. The light coming in through the windows warmed the icy curves of Anaxa’s features. His expression wasn’t what Phainon expected. Instead of its usual detachment, it appeared almost… soft.

Phainon’s cheeky smile returned. “I will,” he said. “Especially if you’re watching.”

Anaxa raised his hand and ran his fingertips absently along his bottom lip. He nodded— only that, and nothing more— before slipping out of the door.

Phainon stood there, staring after him, for a long time after.

Chapter Text

The kitchen had once been a safe place for him. Beneath the copper pots, the open flames, the rows upon rows of fresh, high-quality ingredients on the stock shelf, and the ovens that were constantly ticking away, there was a sense of sanctuary that Phainon gravitated to.

Yes, it was a stressful place— he’d dropped things, he’d burned things, he’d fielded a punch from Mydei more than once— but outside of Aedes Elysiae, there was no other place that felt more like home.

Now, however, peace had fled his noble home. Practically overnight, since the inception of the competition truthfully, this sanctuary had become a battleground.

His friends, his peers, now eyed each other with sidelong glances. They measured each other up, wondering who would be eliminated in this first official round. Their sweaty palms were curled into fists and rubbed anxiously against their aprons.

Phainon twirled a mini-whisk between his fingers. He glanced at Mydei, who arched a brow in response.

‘What?’ Mydei mouthed.

Amusement flickered in his blue eyes. ‘You scared?’ Phainon taunted back, enjoying the irritation that darkened his friend’s face at the mere thought of being afraid.

‘You wish.’

Mydei had enlightened Phainon and Cas this morning that his meeting with Aglaea couldn’t have gone better. Between the three of them, none of them were worried about being eliminated this early on in the competition. Rather, it was the other competitors who should be nervous.

“Bakers,” Aglaea’s voice rang out, calm and collected against the tension simmering in the kitchen. “Before we begin, I would like to introduce our special guests.”

Two familiar faces had already caught Phainon’s attention since he’d entered the kitchen just after eight this morning. At the Grove, the graduate students were part of an extensive culinary program that covered a range of skills. For the past few years, Phainon had been rotated between the instructors, learning everything he could about technical precision and creative innovation.

Tribbie, a petite woman with more than a decade of pastry experience over Aglaea herself, headed the creativity and innovation department. She’d overseen Phainon and his peers’ mastery of blending flavors in ways that bordered on audaciousness. With a sweet smile and constant encouragement, Tribbie often got students to increase the realm of their imagination and deliver better and brighter desserts.

Cerces, on the other hand, thrived on logic and encouraged her students to think critically about every ingredient, temperature, and timing. Her sharp mind, paired with a patient hand, made her the perfect guide for teaching how to refine recipes. She was responsible for improving Phainon’s skill at drawing up concept designs. It was thanks to her that Phainon thought about how to execute a plan every step of the way, rather than leaving it all to good vibes.

“Tribbie and Cerces have graciously agreed to sit in as judges for this first round. As your instructors, they will offer valuable feedback for myself and Anaxagoras to consider before deciding who will leave us today.”

Anxious whispers rose up amongst the competitors. Phainon kept quiet but couldn’t resist staring at the front of the kitchen, where Cerces had taken up a seat beside Anaxa. To his surprise, there wasn’t a sense of unfamiliarity between them.

Instead, the situation seemed just the opposite. Cerces and Anaxa were engaged in a discussion they were both interested in, speaking in low voices so as to not be overhead, but conversing about something that made Anaxa’s brilliant eyes light up as he spoke.

A soft feeling of wistfulness gripped Phainon’s heart. Such an animated expression on Anaxa’s face was a pretty sight.

Unbelievably pretty.

“Bakers, you will have an hour from the minute I start this timer.” Aglaea indicated the old-fashioned timer that was half the size of her palm. “You may begin.”

The second hand ticked forward. In the next instant, the kitchen ignited with action. Time was no longer measured in seconds but in the breaths that Phainon took. Each one was a countdown Phainon felt in the pit of his stomach.

He inhaled slowly. The fig soufra. He knew its execution as intimately as the back of his own hands. The custard steeped with orange. The phyllo brushed with golden browned butter. Anaxa had walked him through it yesterday and aided Phainon along the way in pushing his creativity to the limit.

He had something to prove today. Without Anaxa’s help, it was up to Phainon’s ability alone to correct any missteps before they happened. He’d spent all night practicing this. Now, leaving it to muscle memory, he went through the rhythm of preparing the soufra as if it were his anchor in this kitchen of stressful chaos.

Phainon had only just gathered the ingredients for the dough, placing them in an accessible spot on his station, when it happened.

A ringing sound—

Glass shattering as it struck the floor.

Phainon abruptly turned around, his eyes wide. Nearby, Castorice had frozen, a bowl shattered at her feet. Custard was smeared across the tiles in pale golden streaks.

Her hands trembled violently as she quivered with a panic that seemed to consume her. Her terrified eyes were on the shards and she moved instinctively, hands outstretched to touch the glass.

“Cas!”

Phainon’s shout reached her, startling her into inaction. She looked up, tears in her eyes, as Phainon’s three long strides cut through the space between them. His palms enclosed around her trembling ones.

“Don’t,” Phainon said to her, in a firm but gentle scolding.

Panic flared in her gaze. Her fingers twitched against his grip. Phainon felt the weight of every ticking second of the clock. Each moment he kept her safe was a moment he lost to prepping the difficult phyllo.

Even so, he didn’t let go.

“Castorice,” he said, lowering his voice just enough to draw her focus. “If you touch that, you’ll cut yourself. Breathe with me. The staff will clean it up.”

Her breathing came out fast and shallow. The affliction of her hands sabotaging her had always been Castorice's greatest fear in the kitchen.

Phainon counted the breaths with her. In. Out. In. Out. He stayed there until the tremor in her hands began to ease just enough for her to reclaim some control.

“Okay,” she whispered to him. Castorice nodded, as steel began to shine back brightly beneath her anxiety.

“You can still do this, Cas. We’re old hands at this. This is nothing.”

Castorice shakily stood up and Phainon released his hold. He lingered only long enough to see her begin again, reaching for a clean bowl and guided by a renewed determination.

His heart pounded. The comfort uttered to her rang hollow in his own ears. Precious seconds lost could not be made up for. Phainon forced himself back to his station, a mixture of adrenaline and panic painfully lodged in his throat. It was then he felt it: the weight of a gaze.

His head lifted fractionally, eyes sweeping across the kitchen. Anaxa stood at the edge of it, his arms folded across his narrow chest. The intensity of his look on him was fiercer than the heat Phainon felt emanating from the stove top.

Phainon’s pulse quickened. His own composure felt fragmented under that quiet scrutiny. He glanced away, cheeks burning from a feeling he couldn’t put an exact name to.

He didn’t hear as Aglaea’s soft, teasing voice whispered into Anaxa’s ear. “You didn’t expect that from your favorite, did you?”

He didn’t see as Anaxa’s expression smoothed out to a shuttering blankness, or the way his answering smile became too taut to be sincere as he pinned Aglaea with a glare.

Instead, Phainon swallowed and forced himself to concentrate. The seconds were ticking by and, in that moment, Phainon’s world narrowed down to the rhythm of his hands. Each movement had to be precise. He was working with far less time than the others. He had to be fast, but it had to be right.

Phainon pushed himself harder than he had all week. With sleeves rolled up past his elbows, his hands dusted in flour, he layered each sheet of phyllo with well-practiced movements. The fig custard was cooked and drizzled over the pastry when the time was right. He waited, heart in his throat, as the pastry browned evenly in the oven.

He knew he wouldn’t finish with the flourish some competitors would, but he finished with a purpose. Reaching for the final dusting of powdered sugar, he sensed it in the corner of his vision: a shift of perfect, quiet stillness. It cut through the adrenaline that held Phainon fast in its grip.

Anaxa was staring. His gaze traced Phainon’s movements with a calculating intent.

Phainon kept his head down and brushed sugar over the final pastry. Heat bloomed across his face as he felt a hot flare of pride blaze within. Warm and heavy, it pressed against his ribs with every breath.

The timer rang out.

He’d only just finished on time, four slices of the fig soufra neatly placed on the same amount of white serving plates. It was required for each judge to have their own and every portion had to be identical in quality. Phainon couldn’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment as he glanced at the others’ presented pastries.

The lack of time had resulted in his soufra appearing less polished than theirs. Mydei’s portokalopita, an orange phyllo cake, was blindingly bright in hue. He’d even had the time to decorate the slices with candied almonds.

Phainon inwardly sighed. The competitors were asked to wait on one side of the kitchen as the judges moved like shadows between the stations. With plates in hand, they tasted each dish and whispered amongst themselves, nodding along with the occasional frown, as they judged each dish in turn.

Phainon watched as Aglaea lifted her fork to taste the fig soufra. Her brow arched imperceptibly and a single hum of approval escaped her lips.

It was enough. More than enough.

He held his breath as Anaxa approached to sample the soufra with a measured precision. He took the smallest bite, his lips brushing over the layers of custard and pastry, and Phainon observed as his brow furrowed in thought.

Anaxa set down his fork. He didn’t say a word. But the silence itself carried a weight that was heavier than any praise or critique. Phainon could feel it in the air. He could see it in the faint tightening of Anaxa’s jaw and the slight tilt of his head.

If his dish had been found lacking, Anaxa would have said something. Phainon was sure of it. Silence was a good thing. He let himself exhale just a fraction, though his pulse still thudded loudly in his ears.

By the end of it, all three of them had passed. Castorice made it through with her bougatsa puff pastry, thanks in no small part to his steadying hand earlier, and she gave Phainon a brief, grateful glance. Mydei passed as well, his approach rewarded with high praise for the delicious tasting presentation.

Two competitors, one from each mentor’s side, were the ones to be eliminated. It didn’t hit Phainon until that moment— as he saw Amorphis and Paris bow their heads dejectedly, and accept Aglaea’s condolences— just how real all of this was.

One mistake, one error in judgment that was worse than someone else’s, and it’d all be over.

Aglaea caught Anaxa’s eye across the room. Her voice was dry, almost teasing, as she said, “Call it even, old friend?”

Anaxa’s response was a stiff, “Hmph,” but his eyes flickered again toward Phainon. “If you wish.”

Phainon’s chest tightened. He forced his fingers to unclench, to let the tension leave his shoulders, but the contemplative look in Anaxa’s gaze was nearly impossible to ignore.

Castorice was nearby, her apron damp with sweat, cheeks flushed, and fingers still trembling slightly as she wiped her forehead. She looked like she hadn’t taken a full breath until this very moment. “Phainon… you didn’t have to help me back there.”

“Hmm?” Phainon kept his voice quiet, as if the wrong pitch might shatter the fragile calm Castorice had finally reclaimed for herself. “That’s not how we do things where I’m from.”

Castorice nodded, then let out a watery laugh, the sound light but unsteady. Her gaze softened, but before she could reply, Mydei appeared at Phainon’s elbow. Still in chef whites, still spotless, and now brimming with that usual confident grin he’d undeniably earned.

“A victory like this tastes better with some good wine,” Mydei said, his voice rich with a mock grandeur. “There’s going to be an afterparty tonight, Aglaea said. Tribbie’s encouraged the underclassman to cater the food, so we don’t have to do anything for it.”

Phainon glanced at Castorice. She still looked shaken, the tremor in her hands lingering just slightly, but color had returned to her cheeks. “Who else is coming?” Castorice asked.

“The rest of our class. The instructors. Probably some investors that get roped in last minute— you know how Aglaea can be. What do you say, Phainon? You coming?”

Phainon’s attention drifted to thoughts of Anaxa, who had already disappeared from the kitchen with Cerces in tow. Were they that close? Would he be there? “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Good,” Mydei said, then added, playfully solemn, “It’s important to cherish small wins before we’re all ruthlessly slaughtered in the next round.”

Castorice let out a genuine laugh this time, the tension around her shoulders melting in one smooth exhale. Even Phainon allowed himself a smile, the corners of his lips lifting as a faint warmth lingered in his bones. He let the adrenaline ebb away, and allowed the world to slow down to something resembling ordinary life again.

The Grove of Epiphany was more than the top culinary school in Amphoreus. To Phainon, it seemed as if it was immune to the passage of time itself, a mysterious grove within a fairytale that had rooted itself in the city.

Green vines curled in abundance along its walls and softened the grand appearance of stained-glass windows catching every wisp of light. Even the modern additions to the Grove, state-of-the-art kitchens, a reception hall, and the rooftop terrace, had been made to keep its dreamlike atmosphere intact. Phainon had heard this was a requirement mandated by the Grove’s board of investors whenever a request for renovation was made.

Being here did feel like a dream. Seated on the terrace, a cool drink in his hand, Phainon wondered if he, too, would one day wake up from it.

Would this dream end? Would the village boy who felt he had no claim to this marvelous world be sent back to where he belonged?

Fairy lights looped from beam to beam on the rooftop terrace, casting an inviting glow as servers drifted through the crowd with trays of cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. Phainon’s quick glance noted they were mini-tarts on the plate. Topped with strawberries and cream, they’d be devoured in a single bite. Those must be what the underclassmen had baked under Tribbie’s sweet guidance.

It should have been a night of pure cheer, a celebration for those who had survived the elimination round this morning. Instead, Phainon kept to the edge of the terrace, away from the crowd.

The cluster of Grove instructors, a few visiting professionals and his fellow competitors mingled freely, as though the tension from earlier in the day had already melted away. Most of the guests slipped into conversations with ease as if all of them belonged to this dreamlike world.

Unlike Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.

His attention caught on a figure across the terrace. Anaxa stood illuminated by the glow of the lights above, his sharp features softened just enough to make him seem both beautiful and untouchable, as though the Grove itself had chosen him as its star. Beside him were Tribbie and Cerces, who spoke animatedly with Anaxa as if they had been good friends all their lives.

As Phainon gazed at them, he felt a faint pinch of envy. What had Anaxa been like when he’d studied at the Grove as a student? Was he as unruly as he seemed now, fighting convention at every turn? Phainon could imagine it easily.

And now, what would it take to be like those who belonged so easily at Anaxa’s side? Would it take him years of experience to earn that trust, or luck, like Hyacine had been blessed with to become his protégé?

“Don’t tell me you’re still brooding about the results.” Mydei lounged in the seat beside him, his own drink held loosely between two fingers. “You survived the round, didn’t you? Try looking like it.”

Before Phainon could respond, Castorice spoke up in a soft voice. “Don’t be mean to him, De. It was tough… on all of us. Actually… I wanted to tell you again that I’m sorry, Phainon. For earlier. I shouldn’t have reached for the glass—”

Phainon shook his head quickly. The tears in her eyes would only make his self-reproach worse. “No need. It happens.”

“But if you hadn’t prevented me from touching the shards, I may have injured my hands even worse. You saved me.”

Her sincerity, while touching to hear, did nothing to alleviate what he felt inside. He’d done a good thing, of course, reacting instinctively to save a friend from further harm but, in return, he’d nearly sabotaged his own chances of succeeding.

This time, he’d been lucky. But, the next time? No wonder Anaxa had given him such a look. He’d passed this round by the skin of his teeth. His fig soufra had scored high enough to pass but it hadn’t been anything special. Not like Mydei’s amazing dish.

Mydei drawled, “Stop sulking.”

“I’m not sulking,” Phainon muttered back.

Mydei gave him a look that suggested he wasn’t convinced. Castorice nudged Phainon gently with her shoulder. “We’re still here, all three of us. That’s a good thing, Phainon.”

Her attempt at encouragement was met with a small, reluctant smile from him. It was enough to ease the tension, just a little, but only for a moment.

Because inevitably, Phainon’s gaze drifted past them, drawn back to the other side of the terrace. The sound of laughter carried easily in the night air, and there was Anaxa again, unmistakable beneath the halo of lights, still surrounded by instructors and guests who leaned toward him as if lured in by his spell. The distance between them wasn’t more than a handful of steps, but to Phainon it felt like a chasm.

“You’re staring again.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Mydei replied flatly. “If you look any harder, you’ll set him on fire.”

Castorice, mercifully, tried to cover for him. “Don’t tease, De. He admires Anaxagoras as everyone does.”

“Admire?” Mydei arched a brow, swirling around what was left of his drink. “That’s one word for it.”

Phainon tried to laugh it off, but his throat felt tight. The glass in his hand was suddenly too heavy. He turned his eyes down to the rim of it, where the condensation beaded against his fingers.

Mydei’s chair scraped against the floor. Phainon startled, glancing up to see his friend straightening his jacket with a deliberate air.

“What are you doing?” Phainon asked.

“Getting it over with,” Mydei said, voice low, and paired with a wry grin. “You’ll never get the nerve to talk to him if you sit here sulking about it. So, I’ll go first. Watch and learn.”

Phainon’s jaw fell slack. Dumbfounded, he could only watch as the confident blond threw his shoulders back and crossed the terrace. He half-expected Mydei to make straight for Anaxa, but instead, his friend slowed his footsteps.

A tall man intercepted Mydei near the terrace rail. Broad-shouldered, finely dressed, with his short hair streaked silver at the temples. Phainon recognized him instantly, though he had never been introduced.

Eurypon. A master chef, mogul, owner of half the fashionable restaurants in Amphoreus. And Mydei’s father.

The resemblance between them was plain in the set of their jaws, though Mydei’s expression, tight around the edges, betrayed his annoyance at the encounter. He let himself be drawn into his father’s orbit as Eurypon approached Anaxa’s circle with a charming smile.

“Anaxagoras,” Eurypon greeted, his voice as smooth as expensive silk. His suit alone surely cost more than Phainon's yearly tuition. “Your work speaks for itself, of course. However, when seeing you in person, I begin to believe the stories are understatements.”

Anaxa inclined his head. He raised the edge of his glass to his lips as Eurypon continued, the man’s hand falling heavily onto Mydei’s shoulder.

“And my son. Promising, don’t you think? I heard from Aglaea that he gave quite an impressive performance today, unlike some of the amateurs thrown into this competition. Though, I suppose even the Grove needs its fodder for the best to shine.”

Eurypon’s eyes gleamed as if the remark were clever rather than cruel. Phainon felt the words land squarely against his ribs. He forced his gaze down to his glass, cheeks burning hot. He did not want to continue listening and yet, his ears strained to hear the answer.

Mydei shrugged off his father’s hand, his expression darkening with anger. “Father, you’re speaking out of line. We are all working hard—”

His words died out as something in the line of Anaxa’s stance shifted. He tilted his head up, chin uplifted with defiance.

“Amateurs,” Anaxa repeated, his voice quiet but commanding an instant hush from those who dared to eavesdrop around them. “I’ve always believed this word to refer to those who work for love of their craft, rather than those who seek out the shallow satisfaction of wealth.” His gaze slid, sharp and unmistakable, back to Eurypon. “From what I saw today, some of these so-called amateurs showed more passion, and more integrity, than many of the professionals I have unfortunately had the fate to meet.”

Mydei’s father’s smile flickered, the edge of it drawn taut. Mydei, though, looked startled. Then, it became something else. His shoulders eased as though Anaxa had spoken some private wish aloud.

Phainon’s chest tightened. The defense should have heartened him but the word “amateur” still stung. Eurypon wasn’t entirely right, but he wasn’t entirely wrong, either. Phainon still had a long way to go to be worthy of standing in the place beside Anaxa.

Anaxa deliberately turned away from Eurypon, pointedly leaving no room for Mydei’s father to press the point further.

“I see his father hasn’t relented on getting him into the business,” Castorice whispered, pity in her gaze as she stared after Mydei. “It’s been two years and he still hasn’t forgiven De for joining the Grove.”

Phainon’s chest still felt too tight in the aftermath, his smile a touch brittle as he glanced between an immovable father and son. “Mydei’s always known what he wanted to do. He won’t let his dad get to him.”

If only the same thing could be said for himself as Eurypon’s disdainful remark lingered inside his head. The voices on the terrace pressed in: Eurypon’s voice as he engaged Cerces in conversation, Mydei’s increasingly impatient responses, and Anaxa’s sharp-edged retorts. He could hear it all.

It drove into him like needles. Suddenly, Phainon didn’t feel okay at all. The disappointment he’d been carrying since earlier slipped against his fingers, cutting him sharply like glass as regret twisted unpleasantly inside his chest.

“Excuse me a moment, Cas,” he said, placing his empty glass on the table and nodding in her direction. “Think I need some air.”

She blinked, puzzled. “Aren’t we already outside?”

“A different kind.”

Phainon stood up and gave the top of Castorice’s head a fond pat. She didn’t press him, but her confusion and concern were clear, as she watched him slip past the cluster of guests.

There weren't a lot of places to go on a rooftop terrace. Most of the open space was already occupied by familiar faces that called out to Phainon by name. Even so, he just needed to get away. He needed to divide himself from the insecurity that was nurtured in pretentious places like this.

The fish bowl of the elite and those who wished to join their ranks was not for the faint of heart.

He headed toward the far end of the terrace, where the string lights gave way to a stone balustrade that framed the streets of the quiet Grove below. The Grove was far quieter than Okhema. Here, the air he desperately sought away from the crowd was easier to breathe. Behind him, the ever present laughter and wine-dulled chatter softened into a background hum.

The crisp night carried the faint scent of evergreen leaves, a refreshing contrast from the kitchens’ harsh combination of sugar and smoke. And yet, both carried the same restlessness.

Phainon’s thoughts pressed in faster than the night air could clear them. Anaxa’s words rang in his ears. It was a spoken defense meant to shield all of them but somehow, it left Phainon's raw feelings even more exposed.

Amateurs. Phainon knew what he wanted. Like Mydei, he knew why he was here. So why did the reality of it still feel so bad to hear?

He ran a hand over the back of his neck to chase away its shameful heat. A heavy weight sank behind his ribs. Was it the shame of his own disappointed expectations?

A familiar voice broke through the hush, cutting through the clamor of his thoughts. “You disappear quickly,” Anaxa said, his tone light.

It carried the weight of someone who had noticed far more than he should. Phainon did not jump, though his pulse betrayed him, thudding fast at the sound of Anaxa’s voice. He turned just enough to catch the sight of Anaxa striding to his side.

It was in the way he carried himself, a measured control present in every subtle movement, and his gaze intent on Phainon’s face, that made Phainon believe this wasn’t an accidental meeting. It was as though he’d sought Phainon out deliberately.

Why?

“I just needed air,” Phainon murmured, eyes darting down to his hands. “It was too noisy over there.”

“Too much noise from the others?” Anaxa leaned a shoulder against the stone balustrade, his striking eyes glinting. “Or too much noise inside your own head?”

Phainon slid him a knowing glance. “That too.” He hesitated for a moment and then admitted, “I keep thinking about what happened earlier. How I— how I wasted that time in the kitchen when I should’ve been focusing on my own work. If I hadn’t stopped to help, the end result would have been so much better than it was. I could’ve had the best dessert there but to only come in an average place? No wonder I look like such an amateur in front of others.”

There it was, that word that stuck in his throat and tasted so sour.

Anaxa tilted his head, studying him. “You think helping your friend was a waste?”

“She didn’t need me to be a hero. She would have been fine, and I—” He stopped, frustrated, and curled his fists against his thighs. “I just can’t seem to stop doing it. I’m always throwing myself into where I don’t belong and ruining my own chances.”

The silence that followed stretched on. It weighed down on him, heavy and expectant, until Anaxa finally spoke up.

“No. You did what was right, Phainon. Most people in that room would have pretended not to see what happened. They would have let her bleed, hearing her cry in pain, if it meant they could avoid elimination in that round. You didn’t. That tells me more about who you are than a thousand perfectly-made pastries ever could.”

Phainon’s throat tightened. He wanted to believe him, but it was hard to overcome years of self-doubt within an instant. “Being selfless doesn’t make me a better baker. Good intentions don’t win competitions.”

“No, they don’t,” Anaxa allowed, his gaze unwavering as it traced over Phainon’s tense features. He stepped just a bit closer, until Phainon could feel the body heat that radiated from his slender form. “But they do make you a better man and, believe me, that matters more than you realize.”

Heat rose in Phainon’s chest. Both from the praise and from the way Anaxa’s voice had softened, brushed with something unmistakably tender. Phainon dared a glance at him. Anaxa’s expression was steady but there was fire beneath it. A conviction that seemed to burn through every elegant line of him.

“Better…” Phainon repeated, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “But will it ever feel like enough? Because that’s what I need to reach to not disappoint you. I need to be enough for the Grove, for my dream, and for y—”

He cut himself short, biting back the final word, as Anaxa pushed off from the railing. He closed the distance between them with an ease that made Phainon’s breath catch. They didn’t touch but Anaxa’s presence pressed closer to him, warm and grounding.

“The only thing standing in your way is that annoying voice in your head telling you otherwise. I tire of its presence, Phainon.”

The tip of Phainon’s tongue wet his suddenly dry lips. “Anaxa…”

“If only you could see yourself the way I do… you would not think such useless thoughts.”

Phainon’s heart fluttered wildly. The other guests seemed so far away now, their laughter and conversations muted, as if the night itself had conspired to draw a circle around the two of them. He swallowed hard.

His voice came out softer than he intended. “And how do you see me?”

Anaxa’s lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. “As someone worth paying attention to. Where has that Phainon I first met in Okhema gone? Such a loud boy filled with pride. You were so confident back then in your ability to impress me. Has facing reality changed your mind?”

The words settled over Phainon like a challenge. Phainon felt laid bare, caught between gratitude for Anaxa’s compassion and a yearning he hardly dared name. He forced his eyes down again, though the warmth in his chest refused to quiet along with it.

For the first time all evening, the noise inside his head had finally stilled.

Anaxa’s gaze lingered, steady and intent, as if he could peel back every hesitation Phainon carried. Then, without warning, his tone shifted— low, deliberate, and touched with something that sounded almost ceremonial. 

“Phainon of Aedes Elysiae,” he said, shaping the words and weighing them carefully. “If I may ask… what is your dream?”

The question struck Phainon harder than he expected. He opened his mouth, closed it, then breathed through the knot in his chest.

“My dream…” The words stumbled out slowly, unpracticed. “It isn’t as grand as the others here. I don’t want a restaurant empire. Well, not in the way they do.” His hands flexed at his sides, his fingers restless as they opened and closed incessantly. “My village… it’s fading. People leave Aedes Elysiae and don’t come back. The shops are closing left and right and what’s left is just… the bones of what it used to be.”

He took a deep breath, then released it. “I want to bring life back to it. A bakery, something that makes people want to stop and stay, something that could matter. Even if it’s small, even if no one outside my village ever hears of it— I want to do something for the home that raised me.” Phainon glanced away. “Sorry, it probably sounds naïve to you.”

For a long moment, Anaxa said nothing. The silence pressed on him, heavy with a judgment he dreaded. But when Anaxa finally spoke, his voice was far warmer than Phainon expected.

“Naïve?” His brow lifted. “I call it conviction. Most people spend their lives chasing applause they’ll never catch. You, at least, have chosen something real.”

Phainon’s chest ached with an unfamiliar mix of pride and embarrassment. He let out a breath that felt almost like relief, though he hardly dared show it.

Then Anaxa leaned a fraction closer, his voice dipping to an almost conspiratorial note. “You should take me there someday.”

The words landed with such a startling intimacy that Phainon blinked. He was certain he’d misheard. “What? My village?”

Anaxa’s mouth curved in what was unmistakably a smile. “Yes. If you mean to build this future, I should see the place where it begins.”

Phainon’s pulse jumped. The thought of Anaxa walking the beachfront streets of his childhood, standing before the empty shop windows he wanted to fill, and breathing the same air as his parents and neighbors… it was almost too much for his poor heart to imagine.

His world, so humble and worn, was nothing like the elegant brilliance that seemed woven into Anaxa’s very being.

“You’d really…” He bit off the rest, swallowing against the catch in his throat. A laugh slipped out instead, awkward and incredulous. “You’d really want to see it?”

“If it matters to you, then yes. I find myself curious about the world that shaped you.”

Phainon’s heart was beating far too fast. He felt like he was teetering on the edge of something fragile and precious. It was something he dared not name but had already begun to take root between them.

He managed a nod, though his voice came out barely above a whisper. “Then… someday.”

“Yes, someday.”

Phainon drew in a slow breath, trying to steady the hammering in his chest. His fingers curled against the stone railing as he answered the charge Anaxa had levelled at him earlier. “Back in Okhema, I said I wanted to stand at your side. At the time, I meant that as your partner… in whatever way that means to you. But since then—” Phainon faltered, his throat tightening, “—I think I want more than that. I want to be part of what comes next for you. Whatever your future holds… I’d like to work toward it with you, Anaxa.”

For the briefest moment, something flickered across Anaxa’s face. A haunting vulnerability that was quickly smoothed away in the next second into his usual composure. He stated quietly, “You don’t even know what my future looks like.”

“Then let me find out,” Phainon answered, voice steadier this time. His pulse thudded hard. “Let me… walk with you a little further, and see where it leads.”

Before doubt could drag him under again, a crooked smile edged onto Phainon’s lips. “If you don’t mind me saying so… a mentor should probably know his student more outside of the kitchen. So, maybe one evening…” His gaze caught on Anaxa’s, refusing to waver, “...we could share a meal. Just the two of us. No competitions and no audience.”

The suggestion hovered between them. Anaxa’s eyes narrowed a fraction. Not in displeasure, but as if weighing the meaning of the words. Anaxa’s pause stretched just long enough to make Phainon fidget with the hem of his sleeve. Then, at last, a knowing look flickered across his face.

“An evening meal? Tell me, Phainon… are you asking me on a date?”

The word ‘date’ landed heavy in Phainon’s chest. His ears burned hot, but he refused to look away. He’d done everything to avoid saying it directly but trust Anaxa to strike the target true.

“If… if that’s what you’d call it.” His voice wavered, then steadied, earnest despite the tremor. “Yes. I am.”

Anaxa tilted his head. He studied Phainon like how a master chef would assess the intricate layers of a baklava, curious about the make of each and every one.

“Bold of you.” His lips curved. “You’re not acting like the shy village boy anymore.”

“I’m still shy,” Phainon admitted, shoulders drawing in before he forced them straight again. “But I don’t want to waste a chance.” He drew a breath, meeting Anaxa’s eyes with all the courage he could summon. “Not with you.”

The sound Anaxa made was a quiet laugh, though it was threaded with surprise, as if he hadn’t expected to be caught off guard. “Careful. Say things like that, and you’ll have me thinking you’re serious.”

“I am serious,” Phainon said, before he could think better of it. The words left him flushed but he was resolute, his gaze unwavering as it centered on Anaxa’s face.

He was wholly unprepared for when Anaxa leaned closer to him. It was not enough to touch but close enough that the night air between them seemed suddenly too thin. His gaze lingered, deliberate, as though searching for cracks in Phainon’s resolve.

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

Phainon swallowed hard, his heart stumbling in his chest. “Maybe not. But I know what I want.”

A low hum slipped from Anaxa’s throat. He arched a brow, the faintest glimmer of mischief hiding beneath his usual composure. “A date, Phainon?” His tone was pointed, coaxing the truth out of Phainon as if everything hinged on its very existence.

And maybe it did. Heat climbed up Phainon’s neck. He swallowed hard then nodded once, a clumsy jerk of the head. “Yes. A date. If… if you’d want that.”

A hum of amusement slipped past Anaxa’s lips. Phainon caught the faint scent of mint that clung to him. So pretty and refreshing, and yet Anaxa was so dangerously alluring, too.

“You surprise me. The boy who doubted himself moments ago now dares to ask me out?”

“I’m not a boy,” Phainon muttered, his voice sounding far steadier than he felt. “And I’m not going to doubt myself anymore.”

The words hung between them, quiet but defiant. Anaxa tilted his head, as if considering. His gaze lingered on Phainon’s mouth a heartbeat too long before he smoothed his expression into something unreadable.

“You do realize,” he said slowly, “what it would mean, don’t you? People would call it reckless. Improper.”

Phainon’s throat tightened. “I don’t care.”

That earned a low laugh that was soft and almost disbelieving. “I must say, I like this side of you. Boldness suits you.”

Phainon forced himself not to fidget under the weight of Anaxa’s attention. His heart hammered as if he were back in the competition hall, standing before the judges. But this was so much worse, and so much more infinitely personal, as his every atom was pulled into Anaxa’s gravity.

“So… will you?”

Anaxa didn’t answer at once. Instead, he lifted himself up elegantly on his tip-toes, just enough for his breath to teasingly graze Phainon’s ear.

“Yes,” he whispered.

The answer stole the breath from Phainon’s lungs. The faint curve of Anaxa’s lips, the low timbre of his voice, he felt undone by it all.

A warmth spread through his chest so strong it bordered on an ache, the kind that left him restless and yearning for more. For a dizzy instant, he thought he might lean forward and cross the sliver of space between them to steal a kiss from those tempting, pink lips.

But the weight of reality held him rooted. He was still the student, still too green, and still unworthy of the man who made him feel as if he’d stepped off the edge of the world and into freefall.

The rest of the terrace blurred, distant laughter and clinking glasses reduced to a muffled hum. If anyone had looked their way, he wouldn’t have noticed. For a moment it felt like the entire night had conspired to leave him and Anaxa alone.

It terrified him how a single whispered word from Anaxa made Phainon’s knees threaten to buckle. And yet, beneath the fear there was exhilaration— a heady thrill that begged him not to look away, nor falter in this moment.

Anaxa straightened again. His eyes glinted with a spark of reproach as he murmured, “But, don’t think for a second that this means I will make this competition easier for you.”

Phainon blinked, then felt an answering rush of amusement come to greet him. His lips tugged into a grin. “Why would I want that? Winning you over is the part I like the most.”

Anaxa’s voice came gentler, almost indulgent. “Oh, is that so?”

The laughter and clinking of glasses from the terrace party behind them seeped faintly back into Phainon’s awareness. It was a distant reminder of the world that still turned even when Phainon found himself lost in the myriad of colors inside Anaxa’s gaze. When Anaxa’s regard lingered, for many heartbeats longer than necessary, Phainon could feel that something had shifted between them at last.

Something unspoken. Charged and alive.