The chocolate crackled under my knife as I separated it. I'd already cut up so much of it. How long had it been? I wasn't keeping track of the time, though I should have been. Did I really not care if I went to work today? Was I that far gone? 

All I wanted to do was sit here and help Kazuya make chocolates all day. That's all I wanted in the world. This space, so relieving, easing my fears. 

I watched him crouch a little to check on the burner, ready to melt another batch of chocolate. Soon his kitchen would be overwhelmed again with chocolate smells. A milk chocolate this time. He'd put fruit and raisins into the molds after the chocolate, making mini domes of chocolate that were to be sold as New Year's presents. Last minute gifts for forgetful children and husbands, for thoughtful sisters and mothers and anyone who needed a present to give. The fancy, flat gold boxes with bows already stuck on were waiting for these chocolates. The precise molds making sure that each box would fit twelve, four of each kind of chocolate.

Honestly, I wanted a box. It would make me feel better. 

It was no secret that Seo-Yoon was on my mind. He knew it, looking over his shoulder at me frequently. My answer was that I didn't know what to do. 

She was in town. I'd seen her last night. You don't misplace a face when you're terrified of seeing it. It was her. Long, impossibly straight hair that I knew she carefully swiped many times with a straightening iron every day. Neat, high fashion British clothes since in her opinion they used the best quality fabrics. Her perfect face, gotten with genetics and not plastic surgery. The perfect daughter, like in any parents' fairy tale. 

I hadn't answered her messages, and now she must be in town to track me down. That had to be it. There wasn't any other explanation. Her work was mostly in China. It would never take her here. 

Last night when I got back to the hotel, I'd stared at my phone for a long time. Reading her messages, which were basically all the same. I have to talk to you. Talk to me. 

Why did she have to talk to me? Why wasn't she saying, "where are you, why aren't you answering me"? Why was it always, "I have to talk to you"? Talk to me about what? Maybe the "why" questions would come in that conversation. I didn't want to have that conversation. 

Kazuya broke my thoughts apart when he turned around again. His blue and white striped apron was tied neatly. He had a handkerchief on his head, keeping his hair out of his face as he concentrated. He offered me a smile as he scooped some of the chocolate that I'd cut into a bowl. We weren't talking much, and that was my fault. The kitchen smelled like milk chocolate. I'd been so lost in my thoughts that I'd missed the smell bloom.

There was no reason to talk about this. I'd said a lot about it yesterday. Going into a blind panic, embarrassing myself. I'd had two beers, so I was a little looser with myself than I would have been. It took just two beers to not be able to hold it together. Crying on him like that. What did he think of me? He'd been kind enough, saying that he really cared about me. It had felt nice. But I was embarrassed now. 

Still, I wanted to stay here. This need. Not wanting to be away from him. Last night had made me realize: it wasn't French Cup that was my refuge. It was him. He was the one I wanted to see. Out of all the sweet smells and delicious treats of French Cup, I only wanted him. 

Even the music playing was familiar and comforting, even though I'd never heard this song before. It was the same kind that always played here. His favorite kind of music. It comforted me, because it was uniquely him to me now. 

More milk chocolate smell was blooming. I took the time to breathe it in. Steadying myself with it. Soon, he'd bring the melted chocolate to the table and put it into molds, a complicated process with precise pouring and then turning the molds over to get the excess chocolate out to create a hollow center that he would later fill. It was an exact amount to dump out that only he knew, and he somehow had perfect movements in rhythm with these amounts. I wanted to know these secrets. He'd silently shown me a few times already, the finished chocolates in their molds chilling right now in the refrigerator. He'd let me drop raisins and nuts into the last batch, trusting me so soon with it. Silently, my heart was beating quicker at the idea of seeing his encouraging smile again as I dropped the fruit and nuts into the molds. 

A timer went off, his oven making its now familiar slow beeping sound. The mini baba au rhums he'd put in there earlier were now done. At this, he let out a hurried little and mild swear. He was in the middle of melting chocolate, a very finicky process that he'd shown me... This memory... I was up quicker than I could process it. 

"Oh wait, wait!" He gasped from the stove, but I was too fast. Slipping on the cat themed oven gloves that he always wore in here. I'd seen him do it maybe a hundred times by now. 

I opened the elevated oven, making sure to stand out of the way of the hot air. When that initial burst of air was done, I made my move. Taking the pan with steady, level hands. Swinging it to the work table after looking at both my sides and behind me. Repeating this step twice more, thirty-six little cakes in total. I let out a breath that I was holding, taking off the oven gloves. When I looked up, he was staring at me with such wide eyes and his lips were screwed up in a kind of perfect circle. He was so cute that I couldn't stop myself.

Laughing. How was I laughing? 

"What is it?" I asked, laughing. Incredibly laughing.

"You took out my baba au rhums!" His scandalized voice. It only made me laugh harder. His cute voice, higher than normal.

"Was I not supposed to?" Grinning at him. He wasn't mad. His shocked face. No, it was the opposite. He was adorable. Impressed by me. 

His mouth hung open. My hand went through my hair, too happy all of a sudden. Not caring about anything else. How had that happened? Was that all it took, taking some cakes out of the oven? For him? That quieted me.

His hand went over his heart. He started making the most adorable high pitched sound, and I was laughing even more. Because, this sound was him being overwhelmed by me. His other hand went over his forehead as he grinned, faking like he was fainting. Unashamedly telling me he liked me in this movement, saying that I was so incredible that I could make him faint. Just by taking cakes out of the oven.

I felt like I could fly. This incredible feeling. This happiness in the moment. 

"Gyeong-Wan!" He said my name again, probably for the one-hundredth time today. This time, a growly, cute whine. A fake scold. He was so cute that I couldn't stop laughing. Completely the opposite of how I'd been feeling just a few minutes ago. All that sadness, dispersing in the air like the smell of chocolate, growing fainter and fainter. 

At work, I found myself on my cellphone. The camera was watching me, but I didn't care. The memory of him with his hand on his forehead, disappearing beyond the top of the table as he fake fainted at me. His cute whiney voice saying my name. Watching his back as he swayed with the chocolate, mixing it with his whole body this way. His strong arms and determined face as he flipped the molds over and made the perfect hollow domes. I'd been two hours late for work, but I didn't care. I'd ignored my general manager's demands of wanting to know where I'd been. I'd ignored Tomoko and Minami as they asked, too, but been more kind about it. 

Now, right out in the open, I was on my phone tapping away. Not caring who saw. The visions of Kazuya in my head, that happiness I'd felt just by taking out cakes and seeing his reaction. 

I looked over my message three times before sending it, knowing it was the right thing to do. That I didn't care anymore. Seeing his smile had made me not care anymore. This feeling I'd had and was still riding on. 

Seo-Yoon. I know you're in Tokyo. I want to see you. I'm in room 218 at the Modern. I will be there tonight in the late evening, past 8PM. You said you need to talk to me. I need to talk to you, too. 

I pressed send. Throwing it to the wind. 

My mother would be very mad. My father would probably never talk to me. Forget my extended family. But, all of those faces faded away for his smile. His happy form in that blue and white striped apron, so proud of me for helping him.