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One evening after dinner, while clearing away the dishes, Shanks looked at Law with bright eyes. "Law, I want to challenge myself to make a chocolate opera cake."
Law was wiping down the counter with a cloth and looked up. He didn't know much about desserts, but the name "opera" alone sounded intricate and refined. "Opera? The one with many layers?"
"Yes!" Shanks placed the dishes in the dishwasher with practiced ease, his tone carrying a hint of excitement. "Multiple layers of almond joconde sponge, soaked in coffee syrup, sandwiched with chocolate ganache and coffee buttercream, then finally coated with a smooth chocolate glaze and finished with the word 'OPERA' in gold lettering... It's a classic, and it really tests your skills." He paused, then added, "I want to make one to bring to the office tomorrow."
Law's wiping motion paused. "To the office? For your colleagues?"
"Mainly to have lunch with Shammy." Shanks walked over, leaning against the counter, and looked at Law. "He's been swamped with a cross-border merger case lately, working late every day, often just grabbing a quick nutrition meal for lunch. I've noticed he's looked exhausted these past few days, with dark circles under his eyes." His voice carried undisguised concern. "I know bringing a cake won't solve his work pressure, but at least... it might give him something sweet during his break to lift his spirits a little?"
Law looked at the pure, warm sentiment in Shanks's eyes, and his heart softened. Shamrock always maintained a calm, composed, data-driven facade, but Shanks, as his younger brother, could always keenly detect the fatigue beneath that composed surface and express his care in the way he knew best-through food.
"It sounds like a complicated process," Law stated, but there was no objection in his tone.
"That's why I need a helper!" Shanks quickly responded, leaning in with a bright smile. "My perfect partner, Dr. Law, are you willing to join the kitchen lab again? This mission's codename: 'Midday Sweet Surprise'!"
Law was slightly amused by the anticipation shining in Shanks's eyes and the childish codename, but he merely gave a soft "Mm" in assent. He always found it hard to refuse Shanks's passionate, kind-hearted proposals, especially when that kindness was directed at family.
Shanks cheered and immediately set to work. He pulled out several professional French dessert cookbooks, searched for detailed video tutorials on his tablet, and even started drawing up a flowchart of operations in his notebook.
"The almond joconde sponge layer is key-it needs to be thin and even, cut into perfectly uniform squares after baking..." Shanks muttered while taking notes on his tablet. "The coffee syrup needs the right concentration-enough to soak the cake but not make it too wet... The chocolate ganache and coffee buttercream need to be balanced so neither overpowers the other... The temperature and sheen of the glaze are an art in themselves..."
Law watched him become completely absorbed, as if he wasn't making a cake but planning an intricate, precise project. He shook his head, went to brew himself a cup of tea, and sat down, picking up another dessert book to read up on the opera cake chapter and preview the difficulty of this project.
Preparation started that very evening. Shanks carefully took stock of their ingredients: almond flour, powdered sugar, eggs, dark chocolate, coffee powder, butter, cream... For the few items they were missing, he immediately placed an order on a grocery app for next-morning delivery.
The next day was the weekend, with beautiful sunshine. The kitchen once again transformed into a battleground-no, a laboratory filled with sweet aromas.
Shanks changed into his dark blue apron printed with little chef hats (he claimed this one was more "professional"), while Law was assigned a simpler beige one. On the counter, various ingredients, tools, and bowls of different sizes were arranged neatly, rather reminiscent of the setup in an operating room.
"Step one: the almond joconde sponge." Shanks announced, projecting the recipe onto the small tablet mounted on the kitchen wall for easy reference. "Law, sift the almond flour and powdered sugar together. Twice."
Law nodded, taking the sieve and the mixed powders. The sifted flour fell like golden snow, releasing the nutty aroma unique to almonds. He worked meticulously, ensuring no lumps remained.
Meanwhile, Shanks was focused on preparing the egg yolks and whites. He whipped the yolks with a portion of the sugar using an electric mixer until they became pale and voluminous, reaching a thick, ribbon-like consistency. Throughout this process, his expression was unusually focused, his arm controlling the mixer's path with steady, precise force.
"The meringue is yours, Law." Shanks handed over another mixing bowl and the cleaned, dried mixer attachment. "Add the sugar in three batches, beat until stiff peaks form."
This was a task requiring more skill than the previous butter-whipping session. Law took a deep breath and accepted the challenge. Recalling the pointers Shanks had given him before, he started at low speed, beating the egg whites until frothy, then added the first batch of sugar and switched to medium speed... Gradually, the whites became smooth, glossy, and began to expand in volume. He concentrated fully, controlling the mixer's speed and angle to avoid over- or under-beating. Shanks watched quietly without interfering, his eyes filled with trust.
When the meringue reached the ideal state, forming a stiff, upright peak when the beater was lifted, Law let out a quiet breath of relief. Shanks immediately offered unreserved praise: "Perfect! You've improved so much since last time!"
Next came the folding. The sifted almond-sugar mixture was folded into the egg yolk batter, then one-third of the meringue was incorporated to lighten the mixture, followed by the careful, swift folding of the remaining meringue. This step was critical-needing thorough mixing without deflating the batter. Shanks and Law stood side by side at the bowl, one using a spatula to fold from the bottom, the other helping to turn the bowl. They moved in sync, communicating with barely a word-just glances and subtle gestures. The pale yellow batter became light, smooth, and airy beneath their hands.
The batter was poured into a baking sheet lined with parchment paper and carefully smoothed with an offset spatula. Shanks tapped the pan gently on the counter to release air bubbles, then slid it into the preheated oven.
"First hurdle cleared!" Shanks watched the oven door close, then turned to Law with a grin, giving him a high-five. Their palms met, slightly sticky with traces of flour and sugar.
While the cake baked, they started preparing the coffee syrup and the two fillings. Shanks simmered a mixture of espresso and sugar water in a small pot, the air filling with the slightly bitter scent of coffee. Law was tasked with melting the chocolate and heating the cream for the chocolate ganache.
The cake came out of the oven-golden, evenly baked, with an inviting almond aroma. While it cooled, Shanks began making the coffee buttercream. This was an even more intricate process: boiling sugar water to a specific temperature, slowly pouring it into beaten egg yolks while whipping continuously until the mixture cooled, lightened, and increased in volume, then incorporating softened butter and coffee concentrate. Shanks worked steadily, frequently checking the temperature of the sugar syrup with a thermometer, his gaze as sharp as if he were monitoring vital signs. Law stood by, ready to hand over any needed tools or help steady the mixing bowl.
When the buttercream finally achieved a smooth, fluffy, pale coffee-colored consistency with a rich coffee aroma, even Law had to admit it looked remarkably professional. The chocolate ganache had also come together smoothly, with a velvety sheen.
Then came the crucial assembly stage. The cooled almond sponge was carefully peeled from the parchment paper and placed on a clean cutting board. Using a ruler and a sharp serrated knife, Shanks precisely cut the cake into several perfectly square, uniformly thin layers. His hand was steady, his focus intense, as if performing a surgical incision.
"First layer, cake, brush with coffee syrup." Shanks used a pastry brush to gently apply the cooled coffee syrup to the cake layer, ensuring even saturation without excess. Then, he scooped up a portion of chocolate ganache and spread it evenly with an offset spatula, the thickness controlled to the millimeter.
"Second layer, cake, brush with syrup, spread with coffee buttercream." Same process, different filling. Law was responsible for passing the leveled cake layers or scraping excess filling from the bowl's edges.
Layer upon layer. The slight sweetness and tenderness of the almond cake, the moist bitterness of the coffee syrup, the rich silkiness of the chocolate ganache, the light, fragrant coffee buttercream... Each layer stacked upon the last, rising higher with their synchronized cooperation. The kitchen was filled with the complex, alluring aroma of chocolate, coffee, and almonds intertwined-so rich it felt almost tangible.
Finally, the top cake layer was placed, and the coffee syrup brushed on once more. A square, sharply layered cake emerged before them. Shanks carefully inspected the alignment of each layer and the evenness of the edges, then transferred it to a baking sheet and placed it in the refrigerator to set.
"Half-time break, but the battle's not over yet." Shanks wiped the sweat from his brow and poured glasses of water for both of them. "Final stage: the chocolate glaze and decoration. That's the real 'opera' moment."
After several hours in the refrigerator, the cake was firm. Shanks began making the final chocolate glaze. Dark chocolate and heavy cream were melted over a double boiler, a little butter added for shine, and the temperature adjusted (enter the thermometer once more). Law helped hold the bowl steady, watching the dark chocolate liquid gradually become smooth as a mirror.
Shanks removed the cake from the fridge, placing it on a wire rack set over a baking sheet. He lifted the bowl of chocolate glaze and poured it from the center. The warm, shiny chocolate flowed like a dark waterfall, cascading evenly down the sides of the cake, instantly covering the surface with a smooth, flawless mirror finish. Excess glaze dripped onto the sheet below.
Both held their breath, watching as the chocolate gradually set, its sheen transitioning from wet gloss to a deep, matte luster. It was perfect-smooth as black silk, reflecting the faint light of the kitchen lamp.
"Final step." Shanks's voice was low, carrying the excitement of completing a masterpiece. He took out a small tube of edible gold dust and, with an ultra-fine brush, held his breath and, with exquisite care, wrote the elegant, flowing script letters on the jet-black, glossy surface: OPERA.
The gold letters gleamed against the black background-the finishing touch.
A chocolate opera cake worthy of being called art was complete.
It stood quietly on the rack-square, refined, with clearly defined layers. The glossy black glaze was like a night sky, the gold letters like stars, emanating an irresistible, complex aroma. Anyone would think it had come from the window of a high-end patisserie.
Shanks let out a long, satisfied breath, his face a mix of exhaustion and immense pride. He turned to Law, his eyes bright. "We did it! Law, we actually did it!"
Law looked at the cake, then at Shanks's face, slightly smudged with flour and chocolate, and the pure joy in his eyes. A strange sense of satisfaction welled up within him. It wasn't just about making a complicated dessert; it was about their perfect collaboration, about creating something meaningful together.
"Yes. It's perfect." Law nodded, offering rare, unambiguous praise.
Shanks, delighted, leaned in and planted a kiss on Law's cheek, leaving a faint trace of chocolate. "This victory belongs to you too!"
The next day at noon, at Figarland Group headquarters, in the executive office area.
Shamrock had just finished a cross-border video conference and rubbed his throbbing temples. The lunch before him was the standard nutrition meal his assistant had brought up from the company cafeteria: boiled chicken breast, broccoli, brown rice. Healthy, precise, but utterly unappealing. He picked up his fork mechanically, ready to eat quickly so he could tackle the mountain of documents awaiting him in the afternoon.
Just then, a knock came at his office door. Before he could respond, Shanks poked his head in, his face trying-and failing-to suppress a triumphant grin.
"Shammy! Lunch break. Pause work, I have a surprise!" Shanks slipped inside, carrying a rather professional-looking black dessert box.
Shamrock's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. His gaze fell on the box. "Shanks, it's work hours, and I'm currently..." His eyes swept over his plain lunch. "...in the middle of eating."
"That's precisely why you need a surprise to supplement your meal!" Shanks declared, placing the dessert box squarely on Shamrock's pristine desk, conveniently covering the edge of a contract awaiting review. He deftly opened the lid.
Instantly, a complex aroma far richer and more enticing than any office perfume or coffee filled the air-the deep, bittersweet richness of premium dark chocolate, the smoky fragrance of roasted coffee, the nuttiness of almonds, and the creamy opulence of butter and cream. Layer upon layer, it assailed the senses.
Shamrock's words caught in his throat. His gaze was drawn, almost against his will, to what lay inside.
It was an extraordinarily refined, artfully crafted chocolate cake. Square, with sharp edges, its surface a flawlessly smooth, deep black chocolate glaze that perfectly reflected the cool white light of the office. On the glaze, in elegant gold script, was written "OPERA." Just from its appearance, it was clear this was no ordinary confection from a regular bakery.
"This is...?" Shamrock's voice held a trace of surprise he hadn't intended to reveal.
"Chocolate opera cake! Law and I spent all day yesterday making it!" Shanks presented it with obvious pride, his face practically saying "praise me." "From the almond sponge to the coffee syrup, the chocolate ganache and coffee buttercream, right down to the final glaze-we made everything ourselves! Law was my assistant, and he was so professional!" He had already produced a small, elegant dessert plate and fork, cutting what looked to be the most perfect corner.
The cross-section of the cake was revealed to Shamrock: thin, uniform layers of light brown cake, perfectly soaked with the dark coffee syrup; between them, the distinct, layered textures of chocolate ganache and coffee buttercream, clearly defined and alternating-as precise and beautiful as a geological cross-section.
Shanks placed this slice beside Shamrock's hand, replacing the untouched nutrition meal. "Try it! Law said we controlled the sugar, so it won't be too sweet."
Shamrock looked at the cake, then at Shanks's face, practically glowing with anticipation. After a few seconds of silence, he set down his nutrition fork and picked up the small silver dessert fork.
He cut a small piece and brought it to his lips.
In that moment, his taste buds felt as if they'd been plunged into a precisely structured symphony.
First came the cool, smooth chocolate glaze, its profound bittersweetness melting on his tongue. Next, his teeth passed through the soft, moist, almond-scented cake layer, the bitter-sweet coffee syrup perfectly complementing its texture. Then, the rich, velvety chocolate ganache surged forward, offering a deeper, more intense richness. Finally, the light, fragrant coffee buttercream finished like a magnificent coda, balancing all the weight and leaving the lingering aftertaste of coffee and a long, satisfying finish. Each layer's flavor was distinct, yet they harmonized perfectly-complex, balanced, and exquisitely rich.
This was more than just delicious. It was a testament to craftsmanship, patience, and heartfelt dedication.
Shamrock's chewing slowed. He lowered his gaze, his long lashes obscuring any fleeting emotion that might have crossed his eyes. Time in the office seemed to freeze, marked only by his slow, deliberate tasting.
Shanks watched him anxiously, barely daring to breathe.
Finally, Shamrock swallowed. He cut a second piece. This time, he didn't pause, eating several bites in succession. Though his posture remained elegant, his back still straight, the focused enjoyment of the flavor and the barely perceptible relaxation easing the tension between his brows didn't escape Shanks's sharp observation.
When Shamrock had finished most of the slice and set down his fork to dab his mouth with a napkin, Shanks couldn't help but ask, "Well, Shammy? What do you think?"
Shamrock looked up at him. Those always sharp, analytical red eyes seemed, just for a moment, softened by the cake's sweetness and warmth. He was silent for a moment, as if organizing his thoughts, before finally speaking in his characteristic, level tone:
"The thickness and uniformity of the almond sponge layers were precisely controlled, with ideal pore structure for optimal syrup absorption. The coffee syrup's concentration and penetration were appropriate. The chocolate ganache achieved excellent balance between smoothness and cacao intensity. The coffee buttercream's aeration and flavor strength complemented the overall composition well. The glaze's sheen and smoothness reached professional standards." He delivered this highly technical, data-driven analysis, as if he were conducting a quality inspection on a dessert.
Shanks listened, blinking.
Then Shamrock paused. His gaze returned to the remaining cake, and he added, his voice slightly softer than before: "...It's very good. Extremely so."
When he said "extremely," there was a nuance in his tone, a subtle, distinctly Shamrock-like emphasis.
Shanks's eyes lit up brighter than all the office lights combined. He looked like he wanted to jump for joy but restrained himself, settling for a wide, beaming smile. "I'm so glad you like it! Keep the rest here. Have some this afternoon if you get hungry or need a pick-me-up."
Shamrock gave a barely perceptible nod, his gaze lingering on the beautiful cake box for a moment. "Convey my thanks to Law."
"Will do!" Shanks felt a surge of satisfaction, as if he'd accomplished a major mission. Seeing his brother looking slightly more relaxed than before lunch made all the previous day's measuring, mixing, stirring, and waiting completely worthwhile. "Okay, I won't bother you anymore. Enjoy it slowly, Shammy. Good luck this afternoon!"
Shanks slipped quietly out of the office, closing the door carefully behind him.
Inside, Shamrock sat alone behind his vast desk. The office was quiet again, save for the low hum of the central air conditioning. But the enticing aroma of chocolate and coffee still lingered tenaciously in the air, threading into his senses, seeming to seep into the gaps of his tense nerves.
He looked at the remaining piece of exquisite cake on his desk, then at the now-cold, even more unappealing nutrition meal beside it.
Without hesitation, he reached out and cut himself another small slice.
The sweet, complex, craft-filled flavor spread across his palate again. This time, he could sense even more clearly the focus and warmth invested by Shanks and Law. It was more than just sugar and calories; it felt like a wordless gesture of comfort and support.
He ate the remaining cake slowly, deliberately, not even leaving the gold "OPERA" letters on the glaze.
After finishing, he sat quietly for a while. His stomach felt pleasantly full and warm; the exquisite aftertaste lingered on his tongue; even the tension coiled tight from consecutive late nights and high-stakes negotiations seemed to have loosened, soothed by this unexpected sweetness.
Shamrock pressed the intercom button. "Send the materials for this afternoon's meeting ten minutes early."
Then, he turned back to his computer screen, opening the contract draft that had seemed problematic earlier. Strangely, the complex clauses and numbers now seemed... clearer? The solutions came more smoothly.
Shamrock's fingers began moving across the keyboard, faster than that morning. His expression was focused, but the lingering fatigue between his brows had indeed been considerably lightened.
The afternoon sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the barely visible dust motes in the air and the empty black cake box that still held a faint, sweet fragrance.
That afternoon, Shamrock's efficiency with paperwork noticeably increased. Several thorny issues seemed to find breakthroughs. Even his assistant privately noted that Mr. Shamrock's demeanor that afternoon seemed... somehow simultaneously sharper and more composed? It was a highly productive state hard to define.
And perhaps all of this change began with a midday surprise-a cake made with heartfelt dedication by his younger brother and his brother's partner.
Before leaving work, Shanks made a point of passing by Shamrock's office again, peeking in. He saw his brother still busy, but his expression was noticeably more relaxed than before lunch. Shanks's heart swelled with joy.
When he got home that evening, he eagerly reported his success to Law. "Mission accomplished! Shammy ate the whole cake! And his afternoon was super productive-his assistant said he was in great form!"
Law was reading on the sofa. He looked up at Shanks, whose face wore the unmistakable, satisfied expression of a large dog who had just done something good and was waiting for praise. A hint of a smile flickered in his golden eyes. He closed his book. "That's good," he said quietly.
It seemed the kitchen's "Sweet Surprise" mission was a complete success. And this sweetness, crafted through their collaboration and heartfelt effort, had not only warmed a family member's stomach but had also provided a small but potent energy boost in the midst of exhausting days.
Shanks flopped onto the sofa beside him, wrapping his arms around Law and burying his face in his shoulder, nuzzling. "Next time, let's try something harder! Macarons? Or soufflé? I think Shammy is more easily surprised by those delicate, temperamental things..."
Law squirmed slightly from the ticklish nuzzling but didn't pull away. He patted Shanks's back resignedly. Eventually, under Shanks's expectant gaze, he gave a barely perceptible nod.
That evening, Shamrock returned home slightly earlier than usual-9:30 PM, which, given his recent schedule, almost counted as leaving early.
The apartment was quiet, lit only by a floor lamp casting its warm glow over a corner of the living room. The air still held a faint, lingering trace of the decadent sweetness from the day's baking, mingling with the clean scent of the post-dinner cleanup to form a unique, comforting fragrance of home. He could hear the faint rustle of Law turning pages in the study, and the soft sounds of water and dishes from the kitchen-probably Shanks tidying up before bed.
He stood in the entrance, taking off his coat and loosening his tie, his movements slightly slower than usual. It was only now, in the familiar, safe environment of home, that he allowed the day's tension to show as genuine fatigue. Yet beneath that fatigue, there was a strangely calming sense of peace.
Shamrock changed into house slippers and walked into the living room. The study door was open, and Law looked up, giving him a nod of acknowledgment before returning to his book. It was their usual way-giving each other space. Shamrock nodded back.
He intended to go straight to his room to handle a few emails before bed, but his steps involuntarily turned towards the kitchen. Shanks was facing away from the entrance, humming a tuneless little song as he meticulously wiped the last few water spots from the counter. The light outlined his broad, relaxed shoulders.
As if sensing the gaze behind him, Shanks turned. His face immediately lit up with a smile. "Shammy, you're back! Earlier than usual today, huh?" He put down the cloth, dried his hands, and walked over, instinctively assessing Shamrock's expression. "Tired? Hungry? Want something to drink? Milk? Honey water? Or..."
"No need." Shamrock cut off the stream of concern, his voice slightly raspy from the day's work but his tone calm. His gaze swept over the kitchen workspace, unusually clean, showing little trace of the day's "battlefield," before finally resting on the large refrigerator. "The cake," he paused, as if searching for the right words, "...thank you."
Shanks's eyes sparkled, his smile widening. "I'm glad you liked it! I knew even a workaholic needs a dopamine hit from something sweet now and then!" He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Was the meeting this afternoon smoother? I heard there was a breakthrough in that merger case?"
Shamrock didn't answer directly, but the faint movement behind his glasses-a slight shift of his red eyes-served as acknowledgment. He recalled the several tricky points resolved that afternoon and his own clearer, calmer judgment. It was hard to say this was unrelated to the timely "sweet boost" that had provided both energy and pleasure at lunch.
"The process was complex," Shamrock stated, his tone neither praise nor criticism. But Shanks knew that, in his brother's vocabulary, this was already high praise-it meant he recognized the skill, time, and effort invested.
"Wasn't it just!" Shanks immediately perked up, like an engineer finally getting to present a project. "The almond sponge had to be uniformly thin, the meringue whipped to perfection, the coffee syrup concentration had to be just right-not a drop more or less. Temperature control for the buttercream was absolutely critical, and that glaze! The temperature and fluidity of the glaze was like magic; one tiny difference and you wouldn't get that mirror effect..." He chattered on about the challenges they'd faced and how they'd overcome them, gesturing animatedly, his eyes shining.
Shamrock listened quietly. He didn't interrupt, nor did he show impatience. He simply stood there, his head tilted slightly, as if genuinely interested in this "technical report" on dessert making. Shanks's enthusiasm and sense of accomplishment seemed ready to overflow, filling the warmly lit kitchen.
"...Anyway, Law was incredibly reliable!" Shanks concluded, his voice filled with shared pride. "I couldn't have done it without him helping with the meringue and folding techniques. We came up with the 'OPERA' gold lettering together, too. Doesn't it look elegant, like something from an actual opera house?"
"It does," Shamrock responded, his gaze moving from Shanks's slightly flushed cheeks to the spotless counter behind him. It was as if he could see through time to the image of the two of them working in sync, their focused movements. Their dedication mirrored his own approach to work, even if directed at something entirely different yet equally requiring skill and care.
After a moment of silence, Shamrock spoke again, his voice even softer than before. "The flavor balance was excellent. The sugar... was well-controlled, too." This was perhaps the most emotional evaluation he could offer after "very good, extremely so." He wasn't immune to appreciation; he simply expressed it through analysis.
Shanks understood the implicit approval. His heart felt warm, like honey soaking through it. He scratched his head, grinning sheepishly. "You and Law are actually quite similar in that way-both so focused on control and balance."
Just then, Law, who had left the study without being noticed, appeared silently at the kitchen door, a glass of water in his hand. He glanced at Shanks at the comment, said nothing, and simply handed the glass to Shamrock. "Water."
Shamrock accepted it with a word of thanks. The cool water soothed his dry throat. For a moment, the three stood in silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. They simply shared the small, warmly lit space. The lingering sweetness of the day, the quiet of the evening, and a wordless, familial sense of ease flowed between them.
"Shammy, go get some rest," Shanks broke the silence, his tone returning to its usual lightness. "Have an early start tomorrow?"
"Yes," Shamrock replied, setting the empty glass on the island.
"Then good night!" Shanks smiled, instinctively moving to pat his brother's shoulder. But under Shamrock's calm, unreadable gaze, his hand stopped mid-air, shifting to a casual wave instead.
Shamrock nodded to both of them. "Good night."
He turned and walked toward his bedroom, his gait still steady, but the line of his shoulders seemed, by an almost imperceptible degree, more relaxed than when he'd first walked in.
Only when Shamrock's door had softly clicked shut did Shanks let out a long, contented sigh. He turned, flopping against Law, chin on his shoulder, and murmured, "See? Shammy was actually happy, right? Even though he doesn't say anything."
Law reached up and gently ruffled the slightly mussed hair at the back of Shanks's head. "He was," he said quietly. He could feel the pure satisfaction radiating from Shanks, the joy of having successfully made his brother feel good, more relaxed. That simple, heartfelt intention was warmth enough.
"And he noticed the sugar control," Shanks continued, a hint of pride in his voice. "That means he was actually tasting it, not just being polite."
"Nobody eats something you made just to be polite," Law stated matter-of-factly. The craftsmanship and flavor alone would conquer any discerning palate.
Shanks lifted his head, his eyes bright. "So... macarons next? Or maybe a soufflé?"
Law looked at him, at the shining eyes already planning the next "sweet surprise," and shook his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He felt a touch of resignation, but deep down, the part of him that had once been reserved only for the cool, ordered world of the operating room had long since been gently invaded by these plans, these moments full of warmth, the scent of honey and chocolate, and the comforting hum of domestic life.