Chapter Text
The kitchen smelled like freshly baked bread, pretty warm, buttery, all familiar scent surrounded in their house every morning.
Minho had been up since before dawn, the way he always was. The world outside still wore a soft, dark tint, and the air was cool enough that his breath clouded faintly against the window when he leaned close to check the weather. Inside is where he waits for the oven's pre-heating timer and the sound of freshly brewing coffee just at the corner of the countertop.
He pressed his palms into the dough, gentle but firm, the motion practiced enough that he didn't need to think. His fingers moved automatically, folding, turning, shaping. The flour dusted his skin like a busy bakerman on a casual day.
On the counter, two mugs waited, one filled with his coffee, the other cooling beside it. He never forgot to make Chan's, even when Chan forgot to drink it. Next to the mugs sat a plate with two croissants, golden, crisp, brushed with butter just the way Chan liked them.
Or used to like them.
Minho's lips curved into a faint smile anyway. Habit made it easy. "Good morning," he murmured into the empty room, voice small enough that no one had to hear.
He wiped his hands on a towel, adjusted the curtains, checked the time. Seven-thirty. Right on schedule. He could already picture it: the sound of the bedroom door opening, Chan's quiet footsteps down the stairs, the rustle of his tie being adjusted. He always moved with the same precision, every morning like the last.
Minho has memorized every single detail ever since they started living together two years ago. And none of it changed since then.
Minho glanced at the table one more time, some toast, jam, coffee, everything laid out neatly, as if effort alone could summon affection. He let out a small sigh and busied himself with the oven, pretending the silence didn't sting.
Then, like every other morning, he heard footsteps.
Chan appeared in the doorway, dressed for work, dark suit, sleeves rolled perfectly. His hair was still damp, combed neatly back. He didn't look tired. He never did.
"Morning," Minho said softly.
Chan nodded once, a short, noncommittal sound as he reached for his phone. He poured himself coffee without a glance at the plate waiting for him, ignoring the mug served in front of him prior to his arrival.
"You should eat," Minho offered, voice light but tentative. "You skipped dinner last night."
"I'll grab something at the office," Chan said, scrolling through unread messages.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward anymore. It was routine. The kind that came from two years of practice.
When Chan finally turned to leave, he paused, just for a second as his hand hovering near the doorframe. "Thanks," he said, quietly.
Minho's smile returned automatically. "Have a good day."
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
For a moment, Minho stood completely still, listening to the fading sound of the car engine outside. Then he turned back to the counter and see the untouched coffee and food.
The coffee had gone cold again.
He sighs and proceeded to wrapping the croissants carefully, and placed them in a small box. He'd bring them to the bakery later. Knowing someone would appreciate them there.
Minho sat across the table for a while, staring at the empty chair opposite him. The one Chan had pulled out just enough to make the floor creak, but never enough to sit in. He traced the edge of his mug with his thumb, feeling the warmth fade beneath his skin.
The house was so still he could hear the clock ticking in the living room. 8:05. Chan would already be halfway to the office, phone glued to his ear, voice steady and professional, the version of him everyone else saw. The version Minho still caught glimpses of, sometimes, when he watched old interviews or articles that mentioned Chan's name.
He exhaled quietly, then stood to clear the table. It was muscle memory by now, stacking untouched plates, pouring coffee down the drain, wiping the counter until not a crumb remained.
He checked his phone, a few messages from the bakery group chat, updates about a delivery schedule and one from his sister reminding him to stop by the new branch later.
He replied with a quick "I'll be there soon."
Minho glanced at the clock again before heading to the hallway. On the sideboard by the door, Chan's watch gleamed under the morning light, completely forgotten. He could've sworn he could see dusts forming around the glass.
He picked it up carefully, thumb brushing over the engraved initials on the back: B.C.
He'd given it to Chan on their first anniversary. Chan had thanked him politely, worn it for a few days, and then left it sitting here ever since.
Minho placed it back down, aligning it perfectly just as how he saw it the first time today. Sighing once again as he gets ready for work.
The first second he arrived at his workplace, the scent of sugar and bread always greeted him first. It was the one smell Minho never got tired of, the quiet comfort of something warm and familiar, unlike the cold silence waiting for him back home.
Baking has been his passion ever since he was a child, he had been curious and eager to learn a lot. He watches his father serving pastries as their breakfast at home back in the days. His mom used to laugh about it because it always feels like they're not running out of bread.
Eventually as Minho grew older, he learned that his mom's laughter was just a mask for an actual adoration towards his husband. She'd support him every step of the way and was able to thrive on what they have now.
And Minho had gladly continued the legacy, being the co-owner of his family's thriving bakeshop chain. Minho oversees multiple branches across town, but he still insists on spending time at the original store, the one he grew up in.
He's incredibly hands-on: checks inventory, experiments with recipes, mentors staff. He could easily delegate, but doesn't, work keeps him busy enough to fill the silence at home.
Everyone around him sees him as this charismatic, capable business owner... but no one knows how lonely he is when he comes home to a house where his husband barely speaks to him.
But atleast here, the smell of warmth hugs him and brings him into something familiar-- something comfortly safe.
He stepped into the main branch of White Haven Bakery just as the morning rush began. The soft chime of the door was almost drowned by the low hum of chatter, the scrape of chairs, the sound of the register opening and closing, and the sound of trays sliding into the oven.
"Boss! The strawberry tarts are gone again," Jeongin called from behind the counter, eyes wide in panic. "We made two trays this time!"
Minho chuckled, slipping off his coat. "Then make three for the afternoon. Add a few with blueberries too, Jisung said customers were asking for those yesterday."
"On it, chef!" Jeongin grinned, already hurrying back into the kitchen.
Minho shook his head with a small smile and turned to check the display counter. Felix was there, arranging croissants into neat rows. His sleeves were rolled up, flour dusting his forearms, and his blond hair was half-covered by a black bandana.
"Everything okay here?" Minho asked.
Felix looked up with a bright grin. "Better than okay. Hyunjin just came in with the new batch of macarons, they're perfect, as usual."
As if on cue, Hyunjin appeared from the kitchen door, balancing a tray with practiced grace. "Of course they are. I made them."
"Cocky," Jiyoon-- Minho's sister, teased as she entered from the back, tying her apron. "But fair enough"
Minho glanced at them, his little team, chaotic but golden. They were the reason the bakery ran as well as it did, and maybe, the reason he managed to stay steady when everything else in his life was... you know.
He moved around the shop, straightening pastries, adjusting small details no one else noticed. Outside, customers lined up by the window, snapping photos of the display. A group of high school students laughed over iced coffee, taking their selfies. Someone held a pastry box like a small treasure, or just a small gesture for everyone at some office meeting.
"Mr. Lee!" an elderly woman waved from her usual corner. "These are even better than last week!"
Minho smiled softly. "You say that every week, Mrs. Park."
"Because it's true every week!"
Her laughter echoed through the shop, and for a moment, Minho's chest felt lighter. Here, he wasn't the man in a loveless marriage or the one carrying someone else's resentment. He was just Minho.
"Oppa," Jiyoon said quietly, stepping closer. "Mom wants you to check the new branch later. The signage came in early."
"Sure. I'll go after lunch," he murmured, distractedly arranging a tray.
She hesitated, studying him. "You look tired. Did you sleep?"
Minho's lips curved faintly. "I don't think that's new."
"Still," she said softly, "you should talk to Chan again."
The room felt quieter suddenly, like the noise had thinned. Minho's hands stilled for half a second before he resumed his work.
"There's nothing to talk about," he said, voice even.
Jiyoon sighed, not surprised by the answer. "You're too stubborn for your own good."
He smiled, the same way he always did when something hurt too much. "Someone in the family has to be."
And then, as if nothing had been said, he wiped his hands on his apron, turned toward the door as the bell chimed again, and said brightly:
"Welcome to White Haven Bakery!"
The words rolled off his tongue easily. A routine, saying them a thousand times before.
~
Bang Chan's office was spotless. Too spotless, maybe.
Files were stacked in perfect symmetry on his desk. The floor-to-ceiling windows glared with afternoon light, reflecting the city skyline like glass blades. The hum of the air conditioner was the only sound breaking the silence.
"Mr. Bang, Park Industries rescheduled to three," Seungmin's calm voice came through the intercom. "And Mr. Lee's accounting team sent over the quarterly report."
Chan's jaw tightened for half a second at the name. "Send it in," he replied, voice steady.
Within seconds, the report popped up on his screen. Charts, numbers, revenue growth, nothing out of place. Minho's company, his family's empire, had a habit of delivering perfection.
Chan leaned back in his chair, pen tapping against the desk. The sound echoed.
Two years.
Two years of this arrangement that everyone else called marriage. Two years since he'd stood in front of a crowd, smiling for cameras while his insides twisted.
Two years of going home to a house that didn't feel like one.
He knew Minho cooked breakfast every single morning. The smell of coffee and baked bread always lingered faintly in the air when he rushed out the door.
He ignored them all. He told himself it was easier this way. If he didn't look too closely, if he didn't think too much, then maybe the anger, the humiliation, wouldn't swallow him whole.
Minho's parents had done this. They'd seen his company faltering and stepped in like saviors, offering help and security, and a son he didn't ask for.
A trade masked as generosity.
Chan had accepted because he had no other choice. And now, even as his company thrived again, back to stability, back to headlines. But he still felt trapped in a debt he could never repay.
He told himself it was temporary, just a transaction. His company had needed help, and Minho's parents had offered it, wrapped neatly in a contract, sealed with a wedding band.
He should have been grateful. Instead, he'd felt like he'd sold his freedom.
The door opened softly. Changbin stepped in, tablet in hand, expression unreadable. "We finalized the revisions for the Hongdae branch. Want me to run through them before the investors come in?"
Chan nodded. "Keep it short."
Changbin started reading off the numbers, his voice even but quick. Seungmin followed behind, setting a black coffee on the desk without a word. He always did that, a quiet routine, part of their unspoken rhythm.
"Sales have improved fifteen percent since last quarter," Changbin continued. "If we maintain the trajectory, we'll-"
"Good," Chan cut in, not looking up. Silence lingered.
Seungmin exchanged a glance with Changbin before clearing his throat. "Sir, if I may-"
Chan finally looked up.
"Your schedule's been full for two straight weeks. Maybe you should-"
"I'm fine," Chan interrupted again.
The room stilled. Changbin's gaze flicked to the untouched coffee, still steaming faintly. "You said that yesterday, too."
Chan didn't respond. He just leaned forward, flipping through the report again, eyes dragging over the name Lee Minho.
He hated that it was everywhere, in business partnerships, contracts, invoices. A name that had once meant nothing but now shadowed every corner of his success.
His phone buzzed suddenly, cutting through the quiet.
Jiyoon Lee calling...
He hesitated. Once. Twice. Then let it ring out.
"Who was it?" Seungmin asked gently.
"No one important."
He said it too quickly. Minho's sister had been acting as a bridge between the marriage, whenever she got worried, one would call the other. She was pretty persistent actually, sometimes she gets under Chan's nerves for being too hovering in their personal lives.
Changbin gave him a look, the kind that said he knew better but wouldn't push. "Investors are waiting, sir."
Chan nodded, standing. "Let's go."
As the door closed behind them, the office fell back into silence. The untouched cup of coffee sat on the desk, black, bitter, still warm. The same blend Minho made every morning.
~
Later in the evening, Minho came home first.
The house was beautiful, in the kind of way magazines loved to feature, the ones you see on brochures, wide windows, clean angles, everything minimalist and expensive. But to Minho, it always felt like a museum: all display, no warmth.
He had just come home from the bakery. It was past seven; the house was dim except for the faint glow of the kitchen light. He slipped off his coat, placed his keys in the bowl by the door, and sighed.
He went to the fridge and prepared for dinner, heating some of the meal prep he had prepared every other day. One for him and another for Chan. He began eating, quite a few due to the low demands of his appetite, but still, he ate and left another plate for his husband.
He hadn't notice the humming sound of an engine turning off until the front door opend. The faint sound of footsteps came from the hallway. Minho turned just as Chan appeared, jacket still on, expression unreadable.
"You're home late," Minho said softly.
Chan didn't answer. He set down his briefcase and loosened his tie, eyes darting briefly to the counter, where Minho had left his own dinner, covered neatly with foil.
"I kept it warm," Minho added, trying for casual. "You should eat something before heading to bed."
"I already did," Chan said flatly.
"Oh," he murmured, turning away. "Alright."
Chan walked past him toward the stairs, but something about the way Minho's shoulders slumped, tired but still gentle that made him pause.
"Did your meeting go well?" Minho asked after a beat, still not looking at him.
"It was fine."
"That's good," Minho said. He smiled a little, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You've been working hard lately. Don't forget to rest."
Chan let out a quiet, humorless huff. "You don't have to act like you care, Minho."
The words slipped out sharper than he intended, but he didn't take them back.
Minho froze, hands still on the dish towel.
"I do care."
"Right," Chan muttered, eyes cold. "Just like your family did when they signed that contract."
There it was, the wound that never closed.
Minho turned slowly, eyes glimmering under the kitchen light. "That wasn't me, Chan. You know that."
"You went along with it."
"What was I supposed to do?" Minho's voice trembled slightly, frustration flickering beneath exhaustion. "Tell my parents no? Tell them I didn't want to marry the person I—" Love. He stopped himself just in time, biting the rest back.
Chan's expression didn't change. "Exactly."
Silence. Only the hum of the refrigerator filled the gap between them.
Minho looked down, corners of his mouth tightening. "I just wanted to make things easier for you."
"You've already done enough," Chan said quietly. Then, almost offhand, his voice low and clipped, he added, "Don't think I agreed to this because I wanted to. I only went along because it made sense and I benefited out of it... and because your parents insisted."
Minho blinked, cheeks flushing slightly. "I... I didn't—"
Chan didn't meet his eyes. "Doesn't matter. Your parents thought this would make you happy, so here we are." His tone remained neutral, detached, but the faint edge of judgment lingered in his words.
Minho shifted, a small crease forming between his brows, unsure how to respond. The air between them was thick, an unspoken tension settling like dust in the quiet room.
Chan had turned and walked away before Minho could reply, leaving the smell of cold food behind. Minho stood there for a long time, his reflection faintly visible on the glass cabinet.
Then he let out a small breath, almost a laugh, the kind that sounds like it hurts.
He took away all the leftovers and cleaned the counter, spotless as usual. Then he turned off the light.
The kitchen fell into darkness again, just the way Chan liked it.