Chapter Text
The campus festival smelled like sugar and rain. Lanterns dripped light over tarps and tables, and Yunho’s stall smelled different—yeast, butter, the kind of warmth that clung to his hair and skin long after the ovens cooled.
He had grown up in the back of a bakery, kneading dough against counters that had belonged to his grandmother before him. She’d taught him how to wait for yeast to rise, how patience made bread and people softer. When she passed, the bakery fell into his hands—too big for him at first, but he kept it alive out of muscle memory and devotion.
Now, he balanced classes with baking. On nights like this, he borrowed the ovens, stacked trays into his car, and sold loaves no one else wanted to stay awake for.
People bought the pretty ones first, the round and golden. What remained near midnight was the loaf Yunho refused to discount. Ugly bread, he called it. Too lopsided for photos, too honest for shallow appetites. His grandmother would’ve said, the ones who need it will find it.
He was already planning how to eat it himself when someone stumbled to his table. Tall. Cap pulled low. Mask hiding most of his face.
“Please tell me that’s bread for sale,” the boy said, voice thin and frayed.
“Bread, yes” Yunho confirmed, tapping the tray. “The ugly kind.”
“Ugly is my type.” The boy grabbed the loaf like he’d been dared, tore into it while it was still steaming. He winced, swallowed, and went back for more.
Yunho almost smiled. “Water,” he said, passing a paper cup.
The boy tipped it back, throat rough. “I’m Mingi.”
“Yunho. Student?”
“Trainee. Was here to perform.” He rubbed his jaw under the mask. “I’ve smiled for three hours straight.”
“I stand behind ovens for eight.”
Mingi stared at the crust like it had something to say back. “I’m coming tomorrow.”
“The festival ends tonight.”
Mingi blinked, almost stricken. “Then I guess I’ll starve.”
Yunho wasn’t reckless about anything. Not when it came to coursework, or rent, or the bakery he had promised to keep breathing. But he reached for a paper bag anyway, tore the edge, and wrote his number in block letters. Sliding it across felt stranger than letting someone bite into his bread.
“If you get desperate. I reheat well.”
Mingi’s eyes went young above the mask. He held the paper bag like a backstage pass. “You—sure?”
“An artist can’t sing on an empty stomach,” Yunho said. It was both a joke and the truth.
Mingi grinned, sudden and boyish. “I’m not an artist yet.”
“Eat more slices, and we’ll see.”
He did.