Choux Cream Cake

Spring Onions

I opened the black double fridge door to find  it was a deserted wasteland of take out boxes galore. I scratched the back of my head with a hint of embarrassment. It was his first night here, yet I had nothing to feed him.

I knocked on his door and it opened to reveal P'Saint wearing a normal cotton T-Shirt and shorts, but his hair caught my eye- it was relaxed and straight, the fringe covering his eyes. Seeing him in this natural state somehow made him even more attractive, and some part of me felt special, because only I get to see this. "Uh, there's- I don't really have food in the fridge, you wanna go out to eat?" He bit his lip in thought, "Why don't we go grocery shopping instead? Save you money for the rest of week."

"But, uh, I don't know how to cook."

"I do."

About an hour and two bags of groceries later, I cleared the kitchen and told him where everything was, "You want me to help you with anything?" He paused, then he went into a bag a grabbed a couple stalks of spring onion, handing it to me, "You can help me chop these up," then he walked away to do something else. I took them, hesitating, because I didn't want to admit that at age 25, I didn't know how to chop a vegetable.

After five minutes, I'd cut up barely half a stalk, then I felt a voice next to my ear, making me jump, "Mr Manager, it's okay to admit if you don't know how to do some things you know…" My hands stopped, then I curled into myself in embarrassment. To further my bashfulness, he pressed himself onto my back and took my hands into his, curling around the knife and the onion. "Hold your hands like this," he arranged my fingers and held my hand, controlling me like a puppet. The rest of his instructions blurred, because my mind was preoccupied with his warmth, it surrounded me, and his voice reverberated in my ear, gentle, patient and soothing. The touch of his hands were soft yet firmly controlling, his slender fingers guided me, and every press of his was further amplified by the loud beating of my heart. His lips would accidentally touch the shell of my ear, causing a quiver to go down my spine and make my breath hitch.

Safe to say, I still don't know how to chop a spring onion.

My love for rice is enormous, but after tasting his fried rice I think my love for it has gone past the maximum of the scale and has transcended past this plane of life- it was delicious. I chomped down spoonful after spoonful, savouring the taste. I don't know if there is a god of food but surely, if there is, he has blessed this beautiful man's hands- I mean this man's beautiful hands. I noticed as I was blissfully shovelling food into my mouth that P'Saint hadn't said a word. He sat across the table, stunned in silence, he had barely touched his bowl and was looking at me, mouth agape. I stopped chewing, then slowly swallowed with an audible gulp. He smiled. Then he reached forward and put his thumb on my lip, swiping off the myriad of rice I had stuck on my face. At this point, I was pretty sure he had a mission turn me into a tomato.

"You really like that fried rice, don't you?" He said, still smiling as if he was proud of the fact- which he should be. "Yea, where'd you learn to cook like this?" I said as I shoved another mouthful into my mouth.

"My sisters love my fried rice, I used to cook it for them when Mae wasn't home, you kind of remind me of them," I looked up, then, he continued, "Your face is just as cute when you eat my food." I would have stuck my head into the bowl of rice if only it wasn't empty. He saw my empty bowl and my furrowed eyebrows, angry at it, and scoffed. Then he took a spoonful from his bowl and raised it to my lips which I insisted on not eating, "You've barely eaten, I'm okay, really."

"Just eat it, I don't mind, I'm already full watching you eat it, it's like your stomach doesn't have a bottom," he nudged the spoon at me. It seemed he was adamant on feeding me so I ate it, and my heart flew, for some reason that specific mouthful tasted the most delicious.

The next morning, I woke up as usual at 6 am and fired up the coffee machine and turned on the water heater. I got out the pancake mix, I couldn't cook proper food per se, but I knew how to mix a premade batter and heat it till it looked like a pancake. I remembered I had an extra mouth to feed so I made some for him too.

The door creaked as I pushed it open, a light snoring came from inside. He was still sound asleep, his limbs spread out like a starfish and the waves of blankets weaving over and under his body with his head half submerged in the pillow, his mouth slightly open. I sat on his bed, sitting next to the space that wasn't occupied by limbs, and shook him awake, "P'Saint," he groaned in reply, showing no signs of getting up. "As much as I would love to let you sleep in for the rest of the day, we do have to eat breakfast now if we want to get to work on time." He groaned even louder, shifting his entire body to face me, "It's not like the boss will get angry if we're late," he said groggily, still only half-awake.

"But I am the boss."

"Exactly," then, he lunged forward and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me down into him. I froze immediately in his arms, my face reddened, "Just five minutes na, Mr Manager, na…" he used such a petulant tone, akin to a child begging for candy, how could I refuse him, especially now that I was literally buried in his chest?

"O-okay," he pulled me in closer, and I tried to relax my beating heart, it threatened to explode out of my chest. With common sense, I knew that he had no idea what he was doing, or that he was even doing it at all, but he was still doing it. His sleepy decision to make me his substitute body pillow was really coming at the cost of my mental stability.

A few moments later, when his hold loosened, I wiggled out of his arms. I stood there and racked my brain on how to wake this guy up, he won't be able to go to work on his own because he doesn't know the way so really I had no choice. I wonder… if he's ticklish?