#i moved seats after the intermission to sit closer to the mixer

[csswingandeasy]

…

[fallinnflower]

a ‘crumby’ day

st.van x reader (fluff/humor, college!au)

prompt: “i thought the cookies were for the whole dorm but it turns out you needed them for class so now i’m helping you make more”

You are going to kill someone.

You really, really are — you’re certain of it, because who ever ate your cooking final is going to have to pay the price. That is, if you can manage to stop staring at the empty cooling rack long enough to actually find said person — then they’re really in for it.

Thankfully, the answer comes to you in the form of a group of boys laughing their way into the kitchen. You turn on them immediately, fixing your gaze on the one in the front. It’s clear to you that this is the guilty party, because you can see the loud one in the back holding half of one of your damned perfect cookies—

You almost cry, but the anger welling up in you is red-hot and overpowering, and you find yourself glaring at the man in front again.

“Did you do this?” You hiss, indicating the two empty cooling racks. The group falls silent, the one nearest to you now wearing a look of shock, which would be cute in any other circumstances, you think, except you’re caught between screaming and crying and you kind of just want to beat them all up—

“What?” He asks, obviously confused and concerned by the distressed, somewhat manic girl in front of him.

“Did you eat my final project?!” You snap, but your voice breaks at the end of the sentence, and your breath enters your lungs shakily, “My final cooking project, which was two-dozen cookies to share with my whole fucking class tomorrow, that I spent hours on because they were such a hard recipe— did you eat those?”

The group of boys exchange looks, their gazes eventually landing on the one you’ve been addressing the whole time. Your hands are trembling, and you clench the sleeves of your sweater in your fists to hide it, closing your eyes for a moment.

“I’m sorry.” You squeeze your eyes shut tighter, willing the tears to go back to wherever they came from. You don’t really want to cry in front of a group of attractive boys that live in your hall, especially when you’re supposed to be scaring them off.

“Is your final tomorrow?” You open your eyes to find that the man with the rounded cheeks has stepped closer to you, eyes narrowed in sympathy. If you open your mouth, you’re sure you’ll cry, so you simply nod and sniff slightly.

“What time?” He asks.

“It’s at ten,” you croak, and you choke down a sob, turning your gaze downward. You were just coming downstairs to box them up and then go to sleep in your room so you could actually get some rest, but the universe, it seems, has other plans for you.

“I can work with that.” Your head snaps back up to find the man smiling at you, eyes curving up to match.

“What?”

“I’m a pretty good cook,” he says, pushing the sleeves of his own sweater up past his elbows. “I took a cooking class last semester, too— and you can definitely pass with that recipe.”

“But— you don’t—” His friends all look equally as shocked as you to see him moving to preheat the oven, but he merely smiles his friendly smile at you once more, calmly explaining,

“We ruined your final, so I’m going to help you fix it. I promise.” You sink your teeth into your lower lip, but you find yourself nodding. After all, what else can you do?

The man takes over the dry ingredients while you tackle the wet, standing on your own in the corner and attempting to whisk your eggs as perfectly as you had last time. He’s surprising good and seems determined to do everything perfectly, despite not even knowing your name, and you almost feel guilty for snapping at him. Almost, because it was definitely still his fault.

It isn’t until you’ve settled the cookie dough onto the tray that he speaks,

“I’m Geumhyuk.” You glance up at him, pretending to be engrossed with measuring out the ingredients for your icing. “My friends call me St.Van.”

“Y/N,” you reply, still not looking at him. You don’t care if you come across as cold; you’re tired and stressed out, and you’re supposed to be mad at him and his friends. You shouldn’t care what his name is or what his friends call him, and yet you can’t help but to think the nickname suits him.

“I’m sorry about your project,” he says, then, and you actually do look up at him. He looks entirely sincere, though it may be helped by the gentle features of his face, you think. “We thought they were for the whole hall. I forgot the cooking final was take-home this semester.”

Then, suddenly, he smiles at you, and there’s something playful in his gaze when it meets yours,

“You did a great job, though. You’ll pass.” At that, you can’t help but grin, feeling the knot of anxiety that had settled in your chest soften just slightly.

“Thanks,” you reply. You’re starting to feel better about all of this.

Halfway through the baking process, you realize St.Van has started humming. You can hear it when you pause your icing mixer, and you furrow your brows. The tune is familiar to you, but you can’t place from where, until—

“Oh my god,” you say, and St. Van abruptly stops, moving towards you.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re that Geumhyuk.”

“Uh—?”

“My roommate is in choir,” you clarify, shaking your head. “Sorry, it’s just— you were humming one of the songs for your next concert, and my roommate has been practicing that forever.” St.Van laughs, and it’s a nice sound, you think, extremely good-natured and contagious.

“I didn’t think you’d hear me over the mixer.” You shrug and pick said mixer up again, looking back at the bowl.

“It was nice,” you say. The mixer whirs to life before you can say anything more incriminating than that.

After a few moments, St.Van starts to hum again, louder. You can’t help but smile.

Once the frosting is mixed and in the fridge, the cookies still baking, St.Van drags two chairs from the lounge into the tiny kitchen for you to sit on. They aren’t much by way of comfort, but you think you could fall asleep standing at this point.

Which might be why the next thing you remember is someone shaking your shoulder and gently calling your name, opening your eyes to find St.Van’s bright eyes very, very close to your own. If he’s off-put by your shock, he doesn’t show it, merely grinning at you,

“The cookies are cool enough to ice, and I already put the frosting in a bag for you.” For a moment, you do nothing but stare at him, both in gratitude and shock, before you come to your senses and notice he’s still looking at you.

“You’re an angel,” you tell him, and you aren’t sure you’ve ever meant it more. The bashful smile that lights up his face and rounds out his cheeks only confirms this fact. It’s a Herculean effort to keep yourself from staring, but you force yourself up out of your chair, thanking him again, to ice your cookies. They look a little nicer, actually, than your first batch, and St.Van even helps you pack them up (“So nobody takes them this time,” he jokes, and when you actually laugh he starts beaming).

“Let me know how it goes,” he says, good-naturedly, as you shuffle off into the elevator and he takes the chairs back to the lounge.

“Thank you so much, again,” you reply, and he shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Two days later, you find yourself at your roommate’s final concert for choir, seated in the second row beside her aunt and uncle that live nearby. You fidget nervously in your seat, tugging at the skirt of your dress. Your roommate hadn’t been able to tell you much about Geumhyuk, after all, except that he has a solo near the end of the concert, and she had somehow managed to convince you to tell him about the ‘A’ you received on your cooking final. In retrospect, it had seemed like a great idea; you would just flounce right up to him and congratulate him on a job well done, thanking him profusely for his help before.

However, when you see his name printed on the program, and you’re sat back down after intermission, it’s hard to think that any of this was a good idea. Your roommate has already performed, and St.Van is performing soon. You try to get a grip on your emotions, but it just translates into you nearly destroying the piece of paper in your lap, twisting it beneath your fingers.

St.Van walks out onto the stage, and he smiles into the audience, wearing a simple tuxedo and somehow seeming to emanate light. You’d thought he was cute in the shitty, yellow lighting in your dorm’s kitchen, but now he looks absolutely stunning, and you’re not sure how you’re possibly going to approach him.

It only gets worse when he starts to sing.

You had called him an angel for helping you with your final, and, wow, had you ever been right. His eyes shine as he looks out into the audience, singing his heart out and yet making it look as simple as breathing. Even though you can’t be sure, you think his eyes land on your for a moment, his smile widening, and you feel as though you’re melting into a puddle right in your seat.

By this point, you’ve decided you’re just going to stand by your roommate after the show and ignore everyone else until you get to leave.

Of course, this is easier said than done. Your roommate keeps giving you looks, mouthing questions at you like, “Why the hell are you still here?” You pretend not to understand her, and eventually you decide just to stop looking at her and hover off to her side, prepared to wait out the rest of the event in seclusion. You scroll through your phone idly, and of course everything goes to hell when you let your guard down.

“Hey.” You want to die, but instead you end up jumping a bit before looking up at St.Van.

“Hi,” you say, too fast, but now you’re nervous and you can’t stop because he looks really, really good with his hair swept up like that, “You did amazing, by the way. I didn’t know you could sing like that.”

“Thanks. I didn’t expect to see you here.” It’s hard to focus when he’s smiling at you from this close range, so you hurriedly gesture to your roommate, laughing awkwardly,

“I had to come see her perform.” He looks at you, almost expectantly, and you cave much more easily than you had expected yourself to, biting the inside of your cheek and glancing down at your hands. “I wanted to thank you, too. I aced my cooking final.”

You only look up when you hear St.Van’s laugh, and he nudges your elbow with his own,

“I told you so.” You playfully push him away, mostly for the sake of your own heart, and look up to find his sparkling eyes trained on you.

“What do you think about going out to celebrate? My treat.” You swallow thickly, your heart shooting straight into your throat and making it hard to breathe.

“Me?” You ask, dumbly, and he chuckles and reaches out for your hand, taking it gently in his own, almost cautiously.

“Only if you want.” You bite down on your lip, feeling your smile stretch wide across your face as you lace your fingers with his.

“Just let me tell my roommate.”