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The neon sign in the window of The Daily Dozen flickered with a rhythmic, buzzing hum that sounded suspiciously like a jazz bassline. It was located on a corner that received just enough foot traffic to stay alive, but possessed just enough obscure charm to feel like a well-kept secret.
Inside, the air was permanently thick with the scent of fried dough, vanilla bean paste, and burnt sugar, a combination that Lee Riwoo had long considered his personal brand of oxygen.
Riwoo was a man of simple pleasures, precise routines, and an absolute, unyielding devotion to pastry. He didn't care for complex social dynamics, he despised small talk, and his idea of a wild Friday night was finding a bakery that didn't skimp on the pistachio cream.
The shop was empty save for the guy behind the counter, who was currently leaning over a tray of fresh crullers with a piping bag, looking less like a baker and more like an actor in a high-budget commercial about a baker. Badge on his chest was claiming Jaehyun Myung as his name.
Riwoo did not look like someone who belonged in a pastel-hued pastry wonderland. He wore a structured, dark charcoal trench coat, a perfectly ironed button-down, and a pair of round glasses that sat precisely on the bridge of his nose. His expression was serious, almost severe, as he checked his watch. He had the aura of an auditor who had accidentally detoured into a candy shop.
But Riwoo wasn't here for an audit. He was here because he had a profound, borderline religious devotion to high-quality carbohydrates.
He marched straight to the display case, completely ignoring Jaehyun’s existence. His eyes locked onto the third tier of the shelf: the classic crème brûlée doughnut, featuring a hard, torched sugar shell that gleamed under the halogen lights.
Jaehyun immediately shifted into position. He smoothed down his apron, leaned forward so his collarbone was prominent, and flashed his signature, dimpled smile. "Well, hello there. I haven't seen your face around these parts. If I had, I definitely wouldn’t have forgotten it."
Riwoo finally looked up. He adjusted his glasses. His gaze was analytical, cool, and entirely unaffected by the dimples. "One crème brûlée and a black Americano, please. To go."
Jaehyun blinked. Usually, the "haven't seen your face" line bought him at least a stutter or a shy smile. He leaned a little closer, resting both forearms on the counter, letting the silver rings clink against the marble. "Just one? A guy with your kind of... intensity looks like he deserves a little extra sweetness in his life. How about I throw in a raspberry-pistachio on the house? Just because I like the way your coat matches the mood today."
Riwoo looked from Jaehyun’s face down to Jaehyun’s forearms, then back up to his eyes. "Is the raspberry-pistachio stale?"
"What? No!" Jaehyun gasped, genuinely offended. "It’s fresh out of the kitchen!"
"Then why are you giving it away for free? That's a poor business model," Riwoo stated flatly. He pulled out his wallet. "Just the crème brûlée and the Americano. And I'd prefer it if you didn't discount things based on my outerwear. It messes with my budget tracking."
Jaehyun stood frozen as Riwoo tapped his card against the reader. For the first time in his career as a professional heartthrob, Jaehyun felt a strange, unfamiliar sensation: he was utterly ignored.
He bagged the doughnut and poured the coffee in silence, his brain scrambling to find a hook. As he handed over the brown paper bag, their fingers bushed. Riwoo pulled his hand away cleanly, took the bag, and gave a brief, polite nod. "Thank you. Have a productive afternoon."
Within three weeks, Lee Riwoo became a daily fixture at shop not because of myung jaehyun, no, obviously for doughnuts.
Jaehyun happened to be an absolute menace. Every interaction was a masterclass in casual intimacy. If Riwoo arrived with wet hair from the morning rain, Jaehyun would reach across the counter with a clean kitchen towel, gently dabbing at Riwoo’s bangs while murmuring about how he "couldn't let his favorite customer catch a cold." If Riwoo was typing furiously on his laptop at one of the corner tables, Jaehyun would slide a complimentary iced Americano next to him, accompanied by a post-it note with a hand-drawn heart and a cheesy pun like “You’re dough-manic!”
Riwoo always arrived at exactly 4:15 PM, right after his university seminars concluded. He always ordered the same thing: one specialty doughnut (he was methodically working his way through the menu from left to right) and a black Americano.
And Jaehyun, true to his nature, turned every single interaction into an Olympic sport of flirtation.
"You know, Riwoo-ssi," Jaehyun said one Tuesday, leaning so far over the counter his hair practically brushed Riwoo's bangs as he handed over a matcha-sesame creation. "If you keep coming in at this exact time, people are going to start thinking you're coming to see me. Not that I'd mind. In fact, I’ve started counting down the minutes to 4:15."
Riwoo took a sip of his hot coffee, not flinching an inch despite Jaehyun's proximity. "The timing is purely logistical. The kitchen puts out the second batch of brioche dough at 4:00 PM. By 4:15, the crust has stabilized but the interior remains at the optimal moisture level. You should know this; you own the establishment."
Jaehyun choked on a breath, his smile faltering for a fraction of a second before roaring back to life. "Ah, so it's the dough you're obsessed with. Heartbreaker. Here I thought my sparkling conversation was the main draw." He reached out, his thumb lightly, daringly brushing against the corner of Riwoo's mouth. "Oops. You had a bit of sugar right there. Can't have you walking around looking so delicious."
Riwoo froze. His eyes widened slightly behind his lenses. For a brief, glorious second, Jaehyun thought he had finally won. He saw the faint pink hue rising on Riwoo’s neck, the way his fingers tightened around the paper cup.
But then Riwoo blinked, cleared his throat, and took a step back. "Thank you for the hygiene assistance," he said, his voice a little stiffer than usual. He turned on his heel and walked to his usual table in the corner, pulling out a textbook on macroeconomics.
From the counter, Jaehyun watched him with a mixture of triumph and absolute fascination. He didn't notice that his own heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He thought he was the hunter, carefully laying down sweet, sticky traps of compliments and lingering touches. He didn't realize that the sugar trap worked both ways.
Over the next month, the routine deepened. Riwoo never initiated the flirting, but he stopped pulling away from it. When Jaehyun wrote little notes on the coffee cups “Have a sweet day, handsome” or “You look extra sharp in blue” Riwoo didn’t throw the cups away immediately. He placed them neatly on his table, studying the messy, loopy handwriting while he chewed his pastries.
When Jaehyun would casually slide into the booth across from him during slow hours, chin propped on his hands, complaining about how "exhausted" he was just to get Riwoo to look at him, Riwoo would actually listen. He would offer practical, thoroughly unromantic solutions to bakery management, but his eyes never left Jaehyun's face.
Jaehyun thought he had him. He thought he was slowly spinning a web around the stoic, serious student, drawing him into a world of indulgence and affection.
Riwoo was a pragmatic person, cautious and guarded. He didn't do fleeting flings, and he certainly didn't do casual flirtation.
Riwoo was analytical. He observed. He cataloged. And over the course of the next three weeks, as his daily visits turned from an indulgence into an absolute necessity, he began to notice a pattern.
It happened on a rainy Thursday. Riwoo was sitting in the corner booth, a notebook open in front of him, ostensibly working on a data analysis freelance project but actually watching the counter.
A young woman in a trench coat walked in, dripping wet and looking thoroughly miserable.
"Oh, no, look at you," Jaehyun’s voice carried easily over the acoustic indie playlist humming from the speakers. Within seconds, he was leaning over the counter, handing her a thick stack of napkins. "The rain has no respect for beauty, does it? Here, let’s get some hot cider into you before you freeze. Don't worry about paying—seeing you smile is currency enough for me today."
The girl flushed a deep, violent crimson, stammering her thanks. Jaehyun gave her that exact same weighted, hyper-focused look he always gave Riwoo. The dimpled smile. The slight tilt of the head. The low, comforting murmur.
Ten minutes later, a gym bro in a tank top walked in.
"Man, those shoulders are lethal," Jaehyun said, laughing as he boxed up a half-dozen glazed rings. "Are you trying to put the doorway out of business? Tell you what, take an extra protein-stuffed eclair. Consider it an investment in my personal safety."
The gym bro chuckled, clapping Jaehyun on the shoulder like they were old war buddies, looking thoroughly charmed.
From his corner booth, Riwoo’s pen stopped moving. His eyes narrowed.
He wasn't special or favourite.
The realization hit him not with a wave of sadness, but with a sharp, prickling sense of irritation. The heavy gazes, the custom recommendations, the lingering finger brushes, the "sweethearts" and "darling" and "specifically for you"—it wasn't a unique connection. It was just Myung Jaehyun’s default setting. The man was an apex predator of charm, a walking hazard who distributed dopamine like it was powdered sugar, scattering it indiscriminately over anyone who happened to cross his threshold.
And Riwoo, who prided himself on logic, had walked straight into the snare. He had spent the last three weeks overanalyzing every syllable out of the baker's mouth, wondering if the heat in Jaehyun's eyes meant something real. He had actually adjusted his wardrobe. He had started wearing the coat that made his shoulders look wider. He had spent ten minutes in front of the mirror this morning fixing his hair.
All for a man who flirted with the delivery guy, the college students, the elderly neighbors, and probably the espresso machine itself.
Riwoo closed his notebook with a sharp snap. He felt a strange, cold clarity settle over him. He wasn't heartbroken; he was annoyed. He had let himself be passive, sitting back and letting Jaehyun reel him in like a fish on a line.
If he's going to play the game with everyone, Riwoo thought, his eyes fixing on Jaehyun’s back as the taller man laughed at something a customer said, then he shouldn't mind someone actually playing back.
The game had officially begun.
Riwoo returned the next day, and the day after that. But the dynamic was entirely rewritten. Every time Jaehyun tried to deploy a line, Riwoo shut it down by escalating it into something real, stepping completely past the boundary of safe, casual flirting.
"You look beautiful in blue, Riwoo," Jaehyun said on Tuesday, trying to regain his footing, offering a smirk. "It matches your eyes."
"My eyes are brown, Jaehyun," Riwoo replied smoothly, leaning across the counter and grabbing Jaehyun by his apron strings, pulling him forward a few inches. Jaehyun gasped, his hands gripping the edge of the display case. "But if you want to look at them closer, you just have to ask."
Jaehyun choked on his own spit, his face exploding into a brilliant crimson. "I—you—"
"Two apple fritters, please," Riwoo said, letting go of the strings and pulling out his wallet like nothing had happened.
On Thursday, Jaehyun brought a plate to Riwoo’s table. He tried to be smooth, sliding into the seat opposite him. "You know, if you keep studying here, people are going to think we're dating."
Riwoo didn't look up from his textbook. He just reached across the small table, took Jaehyun's hand, and interlaced their fingers, locking them tightly together.
Jaehyun went stiff as a board, his eyes darting down to their joined hands, then up to Riwoo’s calm face.
"Let them think whatever they want," Riwoo said, finally looking up, his gaze intense, unwavering. He stroked his thumb over the back of Jaehyun's hand, mimicking exactly what Jaehyun had done to him on day one. "Unless you're scared of commitment?"
"I'm not scared of anything!" Jaehyun squeaked, his voice cracking slightly. He looked like he was about to combust. He pulled his hand back hastily, standing up so fast he nearly knocked his chair over. "I—I have to check the ovens!"
He fled into the back kitchen.
Riwoo watched him go, feeling a strange mixture of triumph and something deeper, heavier. He realized something crucial over those few days: Jaehyun wasn't a malicious player. He was a coward. He used flirting as a shield, a way to keep everyone at arm's length while receiving a constant stream of affection. He loved the attention, but the second someone showed real, unfiltered, bold intent, he panicked.
But Riwoo wasn't playing anymore. Because despite his best efforts, despite knowing Jaehyun did this to everyone... Riwoo was already completely, utterly trapped. He liked the idiot. He liked the flustered, blushing baker who hid in the kitchen just as much as he liked the smooth-talking charmer.
Every time Jaehyun tried to reclaim his usual flirty routines, Riwoo bypassed them entirely, delivering deadpan, incredibly bold comebacks that left Jaehyun sputtering and flustered.
When Jaehyun tried to compliment Riwoo’s sweater, saying it looked soft, Riwoo replied, "You can touch it if you want, but my skin underneath is softer." Jaehyun had dropped a mug.
When Jaehyun tried to write his number on Riwoo's cup with a heart, Riwoo looked at it and said, "I already have your number. I want your schedule. Tell me when you're free so I don't have to share you with the rest of your fan club." Jaehyun had forgotten how to breathe for a solid ten seconds.
It was satisfying, but Riwoo was reaching his limit. He didn't want to just play games. He wanted the truth. He wanted to know if the heat he felt between them was real, or if he was just another target for Jaehyun's hyperactive charm.
"Are you finished?" Riwoo asked.
Jaehyun froze. "What?"
"The script. The routine," Riwoo said, his voice flat, level, and entirely steady. "Are you finished with it? Because I’ve spent whole month analyzing the data, and I've come to a conclusion."
Jaehyun’s heart did a strange, violent flip. "Data? What data?"
Riwoo leaned in. He didn't do it lazily or playfully like Jaehyun did. He did it with intent, crowding into Jaehyun’s space until Jaehyun was forced to tilt his head back. The shift in power was instantaneous and dizzying.
"I watched you last Friday," Riwoo said, his eyes scanning Jaehyun’s face, tracing the line of his jaw, the shape of his lips. "You used the word 'beautiful' six times in forty minutes to six different people. You touched four different hands. You offered three complimentary items under the guise of personal favoritism. You have a habit of lowering your voice by approximately three semitones when you want to appear intimate."
Jaehyun’s mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. His mind was entirely blank. He felt exposed, stripped bare beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of his own shop.
"You're a conversational narcissist, Myung Jaehyun," Riwoo continued calmly, tapping his fingers against the marble counter. "You distribute affection indiscriminately because you're addicted to the reaction it elicits. It’s cheap. It's a marketing strategy."
Jaehyun felt a sudden, hot flash of defensive anger. "Hey, now, that’s not—I’m just friendly! I like making people feel good—"
"I don't care about other people," Riwoo interrupted, his voice dropping, becoming softer but infinitely heavier. "I care about myself. And the problem is, your cheap marketing strategy worked on me. First time ever I tried playing back with your own tricks and quite successfully but.. I failed still."
Jaehyun stopped breathing.
"I like you," Riwoo said. It wasn't a confession born of romance; it sounded like an accusation. It was bold, direct, and completely devoid of the usual stuttering hesitation Jaehyun was used to. "I think about you when I'm studying. I hate that I look at my watch at 4:00 PM just because I know I'll see you fifteen minutes later. I dislike the fact that I bought a specific brand of detergent because it smells vaguely like the vanilla sugar you use here."
Jaehyun’s heart was beating so hard he was convinced Riwoo could see it bouncing against his apron. His hands were shaking. He had never, in his entire life, had someone look him in the eye and dismantle him like this.
"Ri-Riwoo..." Jaehyun stammered, his usual smooth vocabulary deserting him entirely.
"I am a rational person," Riwoo said, taking a step closer, his chest almost touching the counter. "I don't like being inefficient, and I don't like being tricked. But I am already invested. The emotional capital has been spent. Therefore, you have a responsibility."
"A... responsibility?" Jaehyun squeaked.
"Yes," Riwoo said, his gaze dropping to Jaehyun’s lips before locking back onto his eyes. "You caused these feelings with your reckless, uncoordinated flirting. You threw the match into the room. Now the room is on fire. You don't get to walk away and throw compliments at the next person who orders a croissant."
Riwoo reached across the counter. He didn't do a gentle, lingering brush. He grabbed Jaehyun by the collar of his oversized cardigan, pulling him forward until their faces were barely inches apart. Jaehyun could smell the rain on Riwoo’s coat, the faint scent of mint on his breath.
"You spent three weeks making sure I thought about you every waking hour. You made sure I couldn't eat a piece of bread without wondering if you engineered the flavor just for me. You trapped me, Jaehyun."
"I didn't—I mean, it’s just how I am—"
"Exactly," Riwoo said, pulling his hand back but maintaining the suffocatingly close eye contact. "It’s just how you are. You do it to everyone. But the difference between everyone else and me is that I don't intend to just sit there and enjoy the show."
Jaehyun blinked, his heart thumping against his ribs in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with sugar or caffeine. "What does that mean?"
"It means you broke it, so you bought it," Riwoo said, a small, devastatingly confident smile finally touching his lips. "You caused these feelings, Myung Jaehyun. You worked very hard to get them. So now, you’re going to take responsibility for them."
For the next two weeks, Myung Jaehyun learned what it actually meant to be pursued.
It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was entirely exhausting.
Riwoo did not do things by halves. Once he had decided to hold Jaehyun accountable, he treated the relationship like a project that required maximum efficiency and zero wasted motion. He didn't wait for Jaehyun to text; he sent precise schedules.
[12:30 PM] I have a break. Bring the lemon meringue tart to the park across from your shop. I will bring the coffee.
When Jaehyun showed up, breathless and still wearing his flour-streaked apron, Riwoo would pull him down onto the bench, hand him a perfectly brewed Americano (exactly how Jaehyun liked it, though Jaehyun had never told him), and proceed to talk about everything from market trends to his childhood dog, all while looking at Jaehyun like he wanted to dissect him and memorize the pieces.
The flirtatious banter that used to flow so easily from Jaehyun’s mouth suddenly felt clumsy. Every time he tried to drop a standard, smooth line, Riwoo would simply dismantle it.
"Your hair looks nice today," Jaehyun tried one afternoon, leaning against a tree while Riwoo ate. "Very... soft. Makes me want to run my fingers through it."
Riwoo didn't blush. He just stopped chewing, looked Jaehyun up and down, and said, "Then do it. Stop talking about it like it’s a hypothetical scenario. We’re forty inputs away from a crowded street; no one cares."
Jaehyun had frozen, his hand twitching at his side, completely caught off guard by the blunt invitation. He hadn't done it. He had cleared his throat, looked away, and felt a strange, burning heat creep up his own neck.
The tables hadn't just turned; Riwoo had flipped the entire room upside down.
The transition from a flirtatious barista to a terrified, desperate-to-please soon-to-be boyfriend was a fast and steep descent for Myung Jaehyun.
That Saturday, they had their first official date. Jaehyun had spent three hours picking out an outfit, changing from a knit sweater to a leather jacket, then back to a cardigan, before settling on a simple black crewneck that made him look slightly less like a try-hard. He had arrived at the restaurant twenty minutes early, pacing the sidewalk and biting his fingernails.
When Riwoo arrived, he wasn't wearing his trench coat. He wore a simple navy blue wool coat and a cream-colored scarf that buried his chin. He looked incredibly cute and completely terrifying.
"You're early," Riwoo noted, checking his watch. "That's an inefficient use of time, but it shows a high level of commitment. I approve."
"Riwoo-ah," Jaehyun groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Please don't grade my dating performance. I’m already losing my mind here."
"I am not grading you. I am evaluating," Riwoo corrected, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He reached out and naturally took Jaehyun’s hand, lacing their fingers together.
Jaehyun gasped softly, staring down at their joined hands. Riwoo’s hand was warm, his grip firm and unyielding. It wasn't a playful touch. It was a statement of ownership.
Throughout dinner, Jaehyun found himself completely off-balance. Every time he tried to use his old tricks, the soft-eyed stares, the gentle teasing jokes, Riwoo would either counter with a blunt, factual observation or accept the flirtation with such a bold, unwavering gaze that Jaehyun would end up being the one blushing and stammering.
"You have a piece of sauce on your lip," Jaehyun said softly, trying to recapture his lost glory. He leaned across the table, his thumb reaching out. "Let me—"
Riwoo didn't lean back. He leaned in, meeting Jaehyun's hand halfway, licking the sauce off Jaehyun’s thumb with a quick, deliberate flick of his tongue. He never broke eye contact.
Jaehyun pulled his hand back as if he’d been burned, his face turning a violent shade of crimson. "Riwoo! We're in public!"
"You did the exact same thing to me in your shop with three customers watching," Riwoo said, taking a calm bite of his rice. "I am simply reciprocating the behavior you established. Is it uncomfortable when the target is you?"
"Yes! I mean, no! I mean— you're dangerous," Jaehyun whined, burying his face in his hands.
"I am not dangerous. I am just holding you accountable," Riwoo said, his voice softening just a fraction. He reached across the table, gently pulling Jaehyun’s hands away from his face. "Look at me, Jaehyun."
Jaehyun looked up, his eyes wide and vulnerable.
"When you talk to me like this," Riwoo said, his thumb rubbing circles into the back of Jaehyun’s hand. "When your face turns that color... is it an act?"
Jaehyun swallowed hard. The teasing, playful energy completely drained out of him, replaced by something raw, heavy, and terrifyingly real. "No. It’s not an act. I swear it’s not."
"Good," Riwoo said, giving his hand a firm squeeze. "Then you're doing an excellent job of taking responsibility."
A few months later, The Daily Dozen underwent a subtle shift.
The neon sign still flickered, the doughnuts were still fresh, and the coffee was still bitter. But behind the counter, Myung Jaehyun was a changed man.
He was still friendly, of course. He still smiled at his regulars and kept the atmosphere bright. But the indiscriminate, heavy-handed flirting had ceased entirely. When a customer tried to flirt with him, Jaehyun would laugh politely and take a step back.
If Riwoo was there during that time he would look up from his economics textbook, adjust his glasses, and give the flirting customer a cold, calculating stare that practically screamed: He is currently under a strict contract. Move along.
At exactly 5:00 PM, the shop emptied out for the pre-dinner lull. Jaehyun locked the front door, turned the sign to 'Closed,' and walked over to the corner booth carrying a single plate. On it was a brand-new creation: a doughnut shaped like a small heart, covered in a glossy, deep blue blueberry glaze, topped with a single, perfectly placed silver sugar bead.
He slid into the booth next to Riwoo, crowding him against the wall. He didn't use his old, practiced smooth voice. He just looked tired, happy, and incredibly soft.
"I made this for you," Jaehyun murmured, resting his chin on Riwoo’s shoulder. "It’s a blueberry-lemon curd. I spent all morning balancing the acidity because I know you don't like things that are overly sweet."
Riwoo looked at the doughnut, then looked at Jaehyun. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, the kind of smile he never showed anyone else, the kind of smile that didn't belong in a dataset.
"It looks highly efficient," Riwoo murmured.
"Taste it," Jaehyun pleaded, picking up a fork.
Instead of taking the fork, Riwoo turned his head, capturing Jaehyun’s lips in a deep, firm, and entirely unhurried kiss. It tasted like coffee, sugar, and the quiet comfort of a rainy afternoon. Jaehyun gasped into the kiss, his hands automatically finding Riwoo’s waist, gripping the fabric of his jacket like a drowning man catching a lifeline. The shield didn't just crack; it shattered into a million pieces, leaving Jaehyun entirely exposed, his heart racing at a speed that felt genuinely dangerous.
When Riwoo finally pulled back, just an inch, his lips were flushed and his eyes were dark with an intensity that made Jaehyun’s knees feel weak.
"There," Riwoo said, his breath warm against Jaehyun’s mouth. "Input received. Processing the data now."
Jaehyun swallowed hard, his hands still anchored tightly around Riwoo’s waist, refusing to let go. The easy, charming baker was completely gone, replaced by a man who looked thoroughly, beautifully undone.
"And?" Jaehyun whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "What’s the verdict?"
Riwoo leaned back just far enough to look into Jaehyun’s dazed, beautifully flushed face.
"Delicious," Riwoo said softly, his thumb tracing Jaehyun’s lower lip. "The doughnut is good, too. I think I’ll keep you."
Jaehyun hid his face in the crook of Riwoo’s neck, a muffled, ecstatic laugh escaping him. "You really are the boss of me, aren't you?"
"Naturally," Riwoo replied, picking up his fork. "You started this fire, Jaehyun-ah. It's only logical that we let it burn."