Nine

A/N: uwu hi everyone! Sorry for the delay~ I'm planning another update next Thursday for a 'SeeSaw' chapter for Leroy (his first day as a firefighter). I'll be updating you beans on Instagram. Without further ado, here's a long chapter.

I do realise that I'm going a little slow on the pacing of the story but having written several instances of romance, I think I've learnt my lesson to take things in stride. Either way, it is only so that when things start picking up, there is a good foundation of establishing the present personalities and circumstances of our grown-up Nillie and Royroy.

Enjoy.

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[Vanilla]

Rhetorical questions were the kind of phenomena I'd never really become apt at dealing with, asking or receiving. There exists a select few in the world who truly believed that every question deserved an answer and perhaps in the past, I was guilty of being such a person. At present, I'd arrived at a point of having developed the strange and uncharacteristic ability to leave some questions unanswered. Ironically, these were often inquiries about myself, in relation to topics unexplored.

Romance, for instance.

And perhaps by the time I'd come up with something decent at the back of my head, the asker had either assumed my reluctance to respond or brushed the question aside; which was precisely what had occurred.

"Want anything?"

I looked over at my companion, following his gaze to the museum's gift shop that was up ahead and filled with souvenirs of interest. He must have seen the look in my eyes and inferred accordingly, judging from the musing smile he had whilst steering us in the direction of the store.

At present, we'd completed three-quarters of the museum's exhibits in quiet appreciation and had arrived back at our starting point near the courtyard we'd lunched at, miraculously alive. I say miraculously because I, for one, hadn't quite expected Leroy to maintain a certain level of interest throughout the visit. Which he did. And that, admittedly, was something to appreciate.

"Those look nice," he pointed out, nodded at a shelf near the entrance that was filled with postcard collections of the museum's illustrations. One of which featured a set of watercolor-ed garden birds, all scientifically labelled and complete with trivia facts printed at the bottom. "You like birds, right."

I turned to him, surprised. "Yes. Yes how did you know that?"

"You used to talk about this book all the time," he followed as I drew closer to the shelf and admired the sample cards displayed below the product. "The one about birds."

"Well um, I'm surprised you remember. Yes, I did talk about it and yes, it did bring about my fascination with birds." I reached up to retrieve a set. The box was beautifully designed and, naturally, appealed to my prudent credit card. "Oh, it's slightly dented on this side." I observed, glancing up in search for another.

The collection was placed slightly higher up in comparison to the flower and tree postcard sets, which may have been slightly more popular, hence the placement. Either way, I could not quite get my hands on the box behind the one I'd retrieved, and so turned to my companion with a look.

He stood idly, leaning against the shelf with a private, musing expression.

"Leroy."

"Yes?" He made no indication of moving and I looked at him quite incredulously, somehow unable to prevent a smile from surfacing.

"Clearly you have no awareness of your companion's needs." I pointed out. He glanced up at the box set behind the one I'd retrieved, then returned his gaze to meet mine.

"I am aware," was all he said, a criminally controlled expression on the corners of his lips. Waiting.

I sighed. "Could you be a decent human being and, with your added height, get me that box?"

He raised a brow.

"Please," I added and he finally laughed, reaching up to retrieve the item whilst returning the one I had problems with. The intention was to sort out the ones that Giselle would appreciate and mail that to her with the box. "Thank you."

We walked the rest of the store and checked out several other items that piqued our interest. Of which included a keyring made of recycled leather in the shape of a 'V', for the name of the museum. I decided to add that to our basket for my companion, who'd spared it more than two glances, and a nice little lanyard pass holder of similar design that fit my office card perfectly.

"You can look at it as much as you like now," I said at the payment counter, handing him the keyring as soon as it was scanned. "And has the dual purpose of preventing you from losing the keys to your bike. A convenient and purposeful gift!"

He received it with an expression that was new. It felt very much like a cross between a laugh and a sigh. "Thanks." And pulled out his keys, attaching the leather 'V' to it. His behaviour after that felt nearly uncharacteristic; offering to hold the gift shop bag and even providing a brief comment about how the exhibits weren't as boring as he thought it would be.

We spent the walk back to the side entrance of the museum exchanging opinions and the prospect of visiting the rest of my personal checklist—carefully curated and ranked according to preference.

Within seconds of our passing through the glass doors, my mind had turned to food options nearby since, well, it was seven in the evening and the perfect time for a meal together. "Anything you'd like to recommend in the area?" I split the work, directing the question to my companion since the takeout he'd got this afternoon was rather enjoyable.

He sort of paused as we were walking and eventually came to a stop. I turned, tilting my head in question and his response was simply to hang back with his hands in his pockets and a strange expression on his face.

It took me an embarrassing second to realize that he hadn't, in fact, been planning to stay for dinner and very naturally wished to retract my words. "I meant to say that I will dinner myself. Have dinner. By myself. Was what I meant. The recommendation was um, a starting point for Googling. I am quite used to having dinner alone, that is to say. Or any meal, really. Um, so... you'd be... home, then?"

I raised my gaze. He met mine with an apologetic laugh. "I need to walk the dog."

"Yes of course." And then I was looking away in embarrassment. "Take care then. I'll be this way." I started in the direction of the traffic light, quite unsure where else I could be hailing down a cab.

"The car."

I turned over my shoulder. "Sorry?"

"I have good taste when it comes to cars." He seemed to be getting at something; a hint of a smile on his lips. For some reason, stunted by our previous exchange about dinner, I could not make out his intentions.

"Is that so? Good for you then. I suppose I on the other hand would require some thorough research tonight for my decision on the car tomorrow... but you could... I mean if you're good with... h-hold on—" In my defense, I was nearly there; so close to piecing things together when Leroy, the criminal idiot, did me no favors by laying everything out in the open.

"Yes I'm asking to come with you, dumbass," he laughed.

There was a strange instance of something bitter on my tongue, as though it'd expected the taste of an unseen. I met his eyes and he looked quite as though he'd felt the same—like we were closing the distance, making up for the time we spent apart by, all of a sudden, hurriedly searching for ways to hang out. Those instances, granted, did not come without the making of effort and time. Yet, judging by the absence of a flame in his eyes, both he and I were well aware of the difference.

The difference between then and now; before and after.

"Verdict?" He asked again after allowing me the space to think.

"I could use some help, yes," I admitted. Quite unable to help myself either way. "Verdict is therefore, um, yes. Yes."

I watched him crack a smile, pulling out his bike keys with the 'V' and spinning them on his index. "I could pick you up tomorrow."

He mused over the expression on my face before starting in the direction of wherever he parked his bike, turning once over his shoulder with a raised hand. I waved.

It was an Uber ride home straight after and a private moment to myself, eyes closed and recounting, briefly but as vividly as possible, the events of the day—my very first museum visit—the title preserved and kept in such a way that ensured a promise I was surprised he'd remembered in the first place.

Back home, museums were uncommon. And even with the many different countries Uncle Al had brought Aunt Julie and I along for tastings, we never really had the time to make proper visits to museums apart from historical landmarks like the Eiffel Tower. Pisa.

Needless to say, I was tempted to toss the importance of the title aside and make my first visit to a museum in New York City during the course of my internship but for some reason, I never did; and the title, strangely, remained protected over the years we spent apart.

Thinking about the past drained the mind despite my efforts to relax and an instinctive glance at the screen of my phone at 5% battery confirmed that this was a perfect time to shut everything off for a quick nap. Turns out, it was much easier than I expected it to be.

Seeming seconds later, the driver was kind enough to wake me a minute before our arriving at our destination and upon pulling up outside my apartment building, made a lighthearted comment about the dozen of people gathered in front of the driveway. Cameras and all sorts of recording devices included.

Immediately, I was sinking into the seat.

"I'm guessing you have a celebrity neighbour around?" The driver laughed, ducking lower to catch a glimpse of the group slightly blocked by the trees that lined the driveway. "Looks like a bunch of people from the media eh."

I offered a polite laugh in response before scooting to the other side of the car further away from the building, thanking the driver, and excusing myself. Needless to say, I was very much paranoid from my past encounters with the tabloids picking up on the whole fiasco between Andre and myself and hence made the decision to stay away just in case.

Taking refuge at a Pret A Manger down the street, I stood in line for a cappuccino and switched on my phone for a quick scroll through my emails and socials, just to be sure. Quite unfortunately, my tingling senses for trouble had developed an unnerving accuracy.

Unfriendly anons were accusing me of taking bribes from Michelin-star restaurants to, one, write favorable reviews of themselves and two, discredit others with low ratings. This was, very horrifyingly accompanied by an image attached to the thread of replies, depicting myself at Siegfried's restaurant speaking to the head chef seated across me at my table.

Initial thoughts went straight to Chef Andre. Whether he was that much of a person to spend the time and effort keeping tabs on a mere 'insignificant opinion' like myself, I was not familiar. One thing was certain: those jumping on the bandwagon to accuse me of inflated ratings and false reviews clearly did not read my review of Siegfried's restaurant.

Four stars, yes, incredibly high for my average score but content-wise, I'd pretty much established the clear reasoning behind good and bad pointers alike. In fact, an ex-colleague and restauranteur from the Times had dropped me a humorous message on Twitter just yesterday about how harsh I was for taking a full star off the score for select few reasons. I'd simply stated that the food, albeit impressive, was missing a spark.

Scrolling on further reduced the yellow bar on the top right corner of my screen to a danger red and hopes of miraculously gaining access to a phone charger this very moment increased tenfold. A couple of scrolls further down confirmed a general interest in the photo of Chef Cox and myself, which, very naturally, began sowing seeds of dangerous thoughts, growing towards the fear of him chancing upon the circulating photo without context and information.

As soon as the certified idiot crossed my mind, I was hearing things like my name in his voice and, turning, had, by the magic of some lucid, vivid dreaming, summoned him over my shoulder, by my side.

"Your keycard," he held out the lanyard card pass I'd purchased at the museum's gift shop, breathing slightly heavier than his norm. Inside was my office pass. I'd completely forgotten to remove it—let alone retrieve my purchases from the bag of souvenirs Leroy had offered to hold on to. He must have thought it was the keycard to my apartment... which explained the following and the... well, the fact that he was here now, instead of tomorrow.

"Good god I'm so sorry," I received the pass and stowed it away at once, and then locking the screen of my phone as soon as his gaze wandered anywhere close. "I must have... um, did you try to call me?"

"Not really. Unlike someone, I don't use my phone while I'm on the road," he made a point casually, to which I responded with a short, breathless laugh.

"Thank you. I suppose I owe you one for the, um, additional trip you made." I glanced over my shoulder to check the line. It had not moved. And then back at him, waiting for some indication of farewell.

This, he did not do. Instead, he stood rather still with a stare—seemingly waiting.

"U-um. Can I get you something?" I gestured to the counter.

He snorted. "Just gonna wait here till they leave?" He cut to the chase, referring directly to the group of people gathered in front of my apartment building. I sighed in return.

"Yes, I suppose. That's really the only option I have. I'll be fine, it's likely just Andre pulling strings or someone who's jumping at the opportunity to have me humiliated. They'll leave soon."

I was about to dismiss him; shoo him home or something along those lines since he was likely tired and had other things to be doing when I realized that staying out here in a café with a flat battery was not going to get anything solved.

"Hold on. I'm sorry to ask but, um, do you maybe... happen to carry with you a portable phone charger of, um, sorts?" I held up my device. "I'm at three percent."

"You're camping out here for hours with that?" He mused, shaking his head at my offended phone. "Just wait it out at my place."

Naturally, I paniked.

Just a little.

"Oh. Um. Thank you for offering, but, I've bothered you quite enough..."

"So you'd rather sit here without a laptop, a book, or a phone." He so thoughtfully laid out, inviting my mind to question itself. "I could do that. But not someone like you."

To think the idiot was absolutely, infuriatingly, admittedly right about something! I was gobsmacked into submission, disarmed by the fact that he knew perfectly well I wasn't the kind of person who could stand the thought of wasting a minute of precious time doing nothing. Efficiency, optimization, at its maximum. Always.

"Fine," I gave in. "I'll take you up on that offer..." Leaving my spot in the line and making for the door, I was about to open it and follow my companion to his humble abode when, well, I sort of encountered the issue of transportation and paused. "I'm assuming this also entails riding pillion?"

Leroy Jeremy Cox had the gall to wink. "You'll learn to love it."

*

It was on the landing of the third flight of stairs up to Leroy's floor that we ran into a familiar face. I recognized her by the combination of pigtails and beads in her hair; the little girl who'd spoken to me at the playground nearby, offering to help with directions. I briefly recalled her counting unit numbers and describing the tenant of her neighbor, 05-10. Leroy.

"Mr. Snowman?" She greeted me first before glancing over at my companion, then back at me. "You're still here."

Confirming the look of amusement on Leroy's face did not require any physical turning of my head. Simply the act of imagination was enough to put myself in quite the state of embarrassment. "Good evening."

"You must be cold," she went on, eyes flitting between my companion and I. "Both of you."

I noticed her seeming reluctance to address Leroy, be it with a given nickname she'd made up or his real one. The logical inference was therefore that the idiot had made no intention of greeting his neighbors on occasion, let alone have a conversation and introduce himself to those living in the apartment adjacent to his. The little girl picked up her piece of chalk and returned to her task of completing a hopscotch court.

In response to her question of coldness, neither of us seemed to understand what exactly it was she might be referring to. Even during our very first encounter, she'd mentioned something similar, or at least made references to the idea of being cold.

"I suppose the fall season is midway," I opted agreeably, nodding and sidestepping her play-space to continue up the stairs. "But if it's cold, you shouldn't be playing outside so much, young lady. Take care."

"It's a warm day, Mr. Snowman. I'm quite alright. Bye bye!"

I caught Leroy's eye as he headed up the stairs to his floor and arrived at his door first. He did not appear very keen on participating in a conversation with his neighbors or, well, associating with people outside of work in general. As far as I knew, his introversion had always been the case and yet, for some reason, it stood out unnaturally after years of being apart.

"You met her?"

"Yes. On my first day in London, in fact. At the park right across the street. I needed some help with directions and she helped."

He laughed, but did not question my decision to consult a child. Unlocking his front door and opening it revealed a patient Chicken waiting at his owner's doorstep—leash on the floor right beside him as though he'd been there for hours.

"Is he always this obedient?" I asked, amazed.

Leroy closed the door behind him before leaning down to reward this dog with a chin rub. "Depends."

He showed me upstairs and into his bedroom, pointing in the general direction of his bed in the dark, presumably where his phone charger was located. "Right beside the lamp. Stay as long as you like."

"And you?"

"Gotta walk him," he raised the hand holding on to the leash. "I'll get us dinner on the way back."

"I'm sorry to trouble you..." I stood idle in the middle of the doorway, somewhat searching for the light switch. "That... would be very nice." In a way, we'd ended up spending dinner together.

He dismissed my apology with a wave, heading back down the stairs and grabbing another jacket of his as he did. Something a little more casual for a walk in the park. In a minute, I found myself alone in someone else's apartment, someone else's private bedroom, listening to still air.

Switching on the lights revealed a room characteristic of his dormitory back in high school. While my first visit had been something of similar nature, I hadn't exactly been comfortable enough to be spending some time observing every nook and cranny of someone else's bedroom. And that was just a few days ago.

I plugged in the charging cable and knelt by the bedside table—far too self-conscious to be seated on his bed.

First on my mental to-do list was sending an email to the company's contracted PR agency to settle the circulation of the picture. At the very least, contain it. Taking things down or removing information from the internet nowadays was simply an impossible feat. And while, yes, it wouldn't necessarily take a genius to figure out the false nature of anonymous allegations, the picture of myself and Chef Cox was incriminating in... several ways. To several people. Select few.

Just one.

After sending the email and calling up Florence to put tabs on my socials, I was finally able to put my device aside and breathe. There was something about his room that made it easy to do so. Perhaps the haphazard nature of its being and the strangely familiar air of fine disorder. A scent that belonged to the past I once lived.

Looking around, his room was purposefully furnished. The bare minimum; as observed from my first visit a few days back. Atop a chest of drawers that rose to chest-height was the Bluetooth speaker I'd gifted him that one Christmas we spent together.

That it continued to serve its purposes after all these years somewhat amazed me. I decided to test the quality product—connecting it to my phone via Bluetooth and playing a very nice Clair de Lune to soothe the senses. The sound was immaculate, just as I'd remembered it to be.

The additional tune had a strange effect of tickling my senses for order and cleanliness. And soon, I found myself picking up stray pieces of clothing and gadgets, tidying tangled cables and wiring, scrubbing at dust spots and stained wood.

I even chanced upon a stack of textbooks layered in dust at the corner of his bed that looked like they had been untouched for years. And understandably so, judging by the titles and respective content; mostly texts related to the exams he was taking in the fire academy and for driving. As expected, the state of Leroy's room was nothing like my own and for the past half-an-hour or so, I was practically repeating an instance of the past.

An oddly familiar scenario of being left to myself in an idiot's room, him, absent, and the urge to clean and make his bed.

I finally got around to doing the latter after feeling satisfied with the general state of the rest of his bedroom.

"Oh."

Patting the pillows and re-arranging them revealed something else on the bed that didn't look like it quite belonged there. Pillows and unpressed sheets and covers, for sure, but peeking out from under the white and fluff was a splash of blue that looked oddly familiar. I tugged it out.

A cotton blazer jacket.

It was mine; was, yes, because I hadn't seen it for the longest time and for a good moment there, I'd almost forgotten it belonged to me. The piece was something I'd worn to Chip's thanksgiving party—the night Leroy and I had a little disagreement about... stuff. It did not help that my memory of that night was slightly fuzzy from the cold; the jacket was something that slipped my notice and attention until a month later, when I couldn't quite remember where, exactly, I'd left it.

I must have let him have it after finding him at the kindergarten playground. The biting cold must have played a part in that. And for some reason, I never asked about the jacket and, well, he's never been able to return it.

Still.

Chancing upon it on his bed of all places, and after all these years, was mildly confusing.

Gently, I set the jacket aside—hung it up on the coat hanger mounted by the doorway—and made the rest of his bed. After that was done, it was simply gathering the stray pieces of laundry in my arms, including the jacket, and precariously making my way down the spiral stairs to the washer in the kitchen.

Needless to say, the load was generous and thus, a fair struggle. I dropped them into the laundry basket and observed, by misfortune, criminal traces of my previous visit and, um... accidental arson. Black spots and what looked like a layer of white dust on select boxes and cans in the pantry.

Just as I'd made the decision to give the kitchen a quick tidy, I heard the digital lock outside beeping at every press of a number. The owner of the apartment and his trusty companion returned with dinner in hand; the latter looking satisfactorily refreshed from a good walk.

"You're back." I greeted from the kitchen. "Sorry, but I couldn't quite stand the mess in your room so, um, I tidied up a little. Hope you don't mind," I pressed buttons on the washing machine, figuring out the several modes it had before sifting through the laundry basket for select items to load into the machine.

He came over, placing the boxes of takeout on the kitchen counter before glancing over his shoulder and then pausing, as though doing a double take at what I was doing. I looked down.

"A-ah." I was holding onto the jacket (my jacket) I'd found on his bed, about to load it in for washing. "Yes, I was wondering—why do you... well, not that you can't but I suppose I wasn't expecting you to keep it with you after all these years. Can you actually fit in this? I was fairly surprised to find it on your... oh um." His entire face was unreadable to an extent that I was, quite frankly, frightened. "You don't seem very happy. Sorry for moving your things without permission."

His lips thinned. Chicken on the other hand, seemed to have sensed something between us and had made his way over to the kitchen, standing between us with an excitable tail, gaze alternating between the jacket halfway through the opening of the washing machine and me.

It was this very instant that gave it away. Well, not exactly 'it', per se; just something random that occurred and, if true to be the case, would have cleared some clouds at the very least.

"Is this... is this the reason your dog doesn't think I'm a stranger?" I retracted my hand, and, along with it, the jacket. Chicken's eyes followed. "Well I've always found it strange that he made no attempt to warn you about my presence the other time but... but I'd assumed he simply behaved in such a manner around everyone..."

Leroy made no indication of affirming this statement, merely leaning over to tug the jacket out of my hands and away from the laundry basket.

"Not if I'd slept with this every night to deal with all that loneliness."

He left the kitchen, taking the jacket with him, and headed up the stairs. I watched his back, rooted to my spot in front of the washing machine—unable to process, categorize, evaluate the truth of his statement. Nothing about it pointed towards a humorous or casual nature, and I was lost for words until he came back down and continued unpacking dinner as though nothing had been exchanged.

He made a vague gesture towards the small, two-person dining table, taking a seat as he did. I sat across him. He slid a box towards me. Tandoori chicken on a bed of Pilau rice and picked vegetables. It smelled amazing.

I looked across to catch his eye and thank him for the meal, again, and perhaps make conversation by asking what he got for himself and, well, how much he'd spent on mine so that I could pay him accordingly but not once did he look up to meet my gaze. He started on his dinner. I hesitated. Then followed suit.

Moments later, I dared another private glance; only to see that he'd been looking at me the entire time.

"So what do they want?"

Truth to be told, I was relieved he'd made the first move to ease the tension. "Well... a scoop, I suppose. Andre might have something to do with it. I'm not entirely sure, but judging from the sheer absurdity of some of these claims... people are accusing me of paid reviews, good and bad. Mostly for Michelin restaurants."

He laughed, shaking his head. Eyes fixed on his takeout. I resumed my own. "Sounds like Andre."

"Is that so?" I noted curiously, but carefully so. I wasn't about to overstep; in the first place, the extent to which I deserved additional knowledge of him and the gap between before and after had never been established. "He must've been a tough one to impress then."

Leroy neither affirmed nor denied my statement, but offered something else instead.

"Not as hard as it is to impress Mr. White."

I looked up to see his gaze already directed my way. Again.

"I can be rather easy-going." I clarified, reaching for a glass of water. Averting my gaze. "I've learnt to, I suppose. No one's ever quite so happy with one-star reviews. Perhaps you may have noticed that I am rather versed in law. That is unfortunately due to the many libel suits I've had to deal with."

He appeared mildly amused. Scoffing. "Some people can't deal with the truth."

I slowed down, then—pausing before pretending to pick at my food. "Are you one of them?"

Again, our eyes. Across the table. The distance was far and yet, close enough to observe an instance of understanding: that he was trying hard not to sink into the past as much as I was.

He stood; his chair dragging across the floor, having finished his meal. "Sometimes."

I faltered. There was no candle, no lake, no creaking, no sound of company or what not. No crisp scent of a cinnamon fall in the air. Little bits of things that once was.

Like wax.

Wax was once a candle.

"Doesn't mean I don't like you the way you are, though," he added to finish; like it was something obvious to him and did not require justification or clarification. Just a side note for his conversation partner. Who happened to be me.

Naturally, I was reduced to my natural state of blush, which was somehow always the case only in the presence of a certain idiot. He'd caught me completely off-guard; something that had tended to occur in our early days of culinary school until I was sufficiently accustomed to his criminal ways. I say sufficiently because, well, truthfully speaking, becoming fully accustomed to illegal acts was never really possible in the first place.

"I-I see... well. That is nice to know. Thank you for the dinner by the way. How much is it?"

"Doesn't matter," he dismissed, washing his mug after clearing his end of the table. "You can get the next one."

Quietly noting the unspoken implications of this statement, I returned to my meal and finished without a clue on how I should be responding. Minutes later, I was done with dinner and washing my glass when Leroy raised a vague question about tomorrow's plans.

My guess was that he'd assumed I had called off the trip to the chauffeur company considering the circumstances I had to deal with. He wasn't entirely wrong; I mentioned a short trip down to the office first thing tomorrow morning to speak with PR and sort things out with relevant partners but that aside, assured him that the rest of my plans remained untouched.

"We could head down to see the cars as soon as things are settled. If you're still up for it," I added.

"Whatever works for you," he seemed casual about it. "I'll wait out front. Don't leave until you fuck Andre over twice." I gave him a look for language, to which he laughed headed up the stairs to his room for a shower.

I followed, certain that I could now leave with my phone sufficiently charged and the media in front of my apartment building done for the evening. Fortunately, the PR agency I'd emailed had gotten back to me with good news: they'd managed to convince the source of the photo to take it down but he, in return, demanded I speak to Andre the next day.

This was somewhat within my realm of expectation. And so I wrote up a quick response, thanking the team and agreeing to an arrangement for tomorrow morning. Minutes later, I was on a call with my apartment building's security to check on the status of those gathered outside.

By god, it was ridiculous. Hours later and still no sign of them leaving the premises. Even worse—security claimed limited responsibility since they were merely loitering outside the building and were therefore beyond their area of concern.

Needless to say, I was in perfect disbelief at the relentlessness of tabloid and independent content writers. After all, I wasn't even that good of a scoop in the first place. Had they really nothing else to write about?

I had ended the call with a sigh and looked back up, away from the screen of my phone, to ask the dreaded question of staying for another hour or so when I finally registered the contents of whatever it was my eyes were taking in.

The idiot was not fully dressed.

Immediately, I was telling myself to look away and and and away but good god did those bread rolls warrant a lawsuit simply from the look of it—oh good heavens he saw me looking.

Slowly, an unauthorized, unsanctioned, unlawful smirk crossed his features and, well, that is to say, he was simply not, um, not allowed.

"Manners, Mr. White."

I had hands on the sides of my face physically turning my head to the side. "Y-yes of course. Sorry." To think I was further resisting the sinful temptation of a second glance. "Unbelievable. Just when I used to think they were—granted, that was seven years ago, but, you see, it's just, how could they...? As though they'd been rising in the oven all this time!" I gestured at the bread rolls. Openly. But without looking at them.

I heard him laugh.

"Guess it's called the fire house for a reason."

"Yes yes you've quite literally been baking in there a-and and are all...? Are all firefighters this, um..." I once again gestured in the general direction of rolls. Thank goodness for my sanity, he was heading for the bathroom.

"Not all," he shrugs. "Depends."

"On?"

"Your order," he said over his shoulder, inviting the world to impose a ban on his existence with a stupid, stupid wink.