A/N: Initially, I was going to combine this chapter and the next into a single, 15k word chapter but after going through the perspective change as a whole, I realized that they were still better separated ;w; so we're going to stick to a 6.2k chapter today, and then on August 13th (Leroy's birthday), we'll celebrate with a BOOMING, BANGING, FLAMING HOT 9k word chapter of rated content. Hooray!

I have plans for Vanilla's birthday that's coming up in October (it would be my one-year anniversary since coming back hehe ;v;) which I'm quite excited for. It's been some time since I indulged in an exciting alternate universe and I know it usually ends before the spicy stuff but this time, I might actually dive right into it since they've already, you know. In the next chapter :> 

Either way, I'm so sorry for the wait! Enjoy.

_____________________

[Vanilla]

"Serving a candle is unheard of. Let alone having them wait as they stare at the flicker of the flame, a bourbon-soaked candle, taking in the aroma of edible fog as they do—a soothing combination of tea and local flowers. White chocolate lattice, tempered. A forgiving design. Allows for imperfections. The fragrance of desiccated coconut—signature of Indonesian treats. And because they insist on being a fool, snow granita by the sides of the candle as it melts. Subtle flavors, cherry-picked to compliment the star ingredient: Vanilla. Made to watch as the dessert before them falls apart to reveal a wine-red molten core of rose and ruby chocolate, inspired by the local drink bandung. Ruby chocolate adds dimension; a touch of citrus. An unbelievable concept, and yet... flawless execution.

"Making the wait part of the process is both cruel and ingenious; I have never seen anything like it." I lowered my clipboard as I neared the end of my description, read aloud before the rest of the cast on camera before carefully meeting the gaze of the mastermind behind this very dish.

I wasn't going to cry in front of an entire production and have that shot of me immortalized on national TV. I wasn't.

Scenes like that get clipped and uploaded on social media out of context or frozen in every unflattering angle for the sole purpose of clickbait thumbnails. General knowledge. In fact, I'd spent the past two hours in the tasting lounge preparing myself for this very moment, bracing for impact, and I daresay it paid off tremendously. Until, well, I caught a glimpse of tears in Layla's eyes after the grand reveal which instantly rendered my efforts futile to say the least.

The moment was a cloud.

Parting to reveal the sun amidst cheers and applause; Chef Pao going up to the certified idiot with open arms upon seeing him visibly fazed by the taste of his own creation; Chef Du Bellay with a word of congratulations and a pat on the shoulder as she smiled and clapped; Chef Amelia holding out a handkerchief in my direction as I raised a hand to suppress sniffles.

It was impossible to comprehend the gravity and weight of Leroy's reality in the present moment. Even with the knowledge of his condition, none of us could have wholly understood his experience of the past seven years and the fires he'd had to put out in his head. I debated asking what he thought of his dish then and there; what it tasted like to him and how it had come to be after the longest drought but alas—he met my gaze and I knew.

"I hate to break up the fun but... it's time for the bad news," Amelia interjected with her hands clasped behind her back. In one sweeping moment, the atmosphere grew tense, made worse by the sound of Pao's slow, leisurely footsteps back up to the platform.

"If you made Simple Joy, Seafood Paradise, or Adolescence, please step forward."

All three of us had made our guesses in the tasting room.

For Layla Tenner to be standing beside Andre on the same level was certainly not what we had expected a day ago. The entire room fell deathly quiet and even Andre himself appeared genuinely surprised by the presence of the once-toque-bearer at his shoulder.

"Chef Tenner," Amelia did not bother hiding the surprise in her voice. "Tell us more about your dish. Granted, we'd understand if your performance was affected by the accident at sea."

"No, it wasn't. And I don't wish to make any excuses," she said, smiling sadly and rubbing the sides of her arms. "It's one thing to be in the process of recovery, but... the conception of a dish has nothing to do with it. Chicken and waffles was our thing. Me and my grandmother. Late Saturday mornings and a glass of lemonade. I couldn't decide between playing it safe and proving myself, and so the intention... got lost along the way. Point is, I didn't do ayam penyet justice. Definitely not my proudest moment." Her response was honest and admirable, without a stone left unturned.

"Thank you, Chef." Pao nodded at the individual next in line. "Andre. Tell us about your dish."

"I made vanilla ice cream with a side of chocolate fried bananas inspired by the local dish goreng pisang. And I'm gonna be honest with you here—I think there's been a pretty fucking obvious show of bias going around lately."

Already, I could hear the commercial break at the end of his sentence, increasing the viewer's investment by tenfold and raking in the dollar signs while they waited on the edge of their seats. This was peak entertainment in the world of reality TV and of course, Andre wasn't going to miss an opportunity at more screen time.

"... Please elaborate."

"Cinder made the exact same thing, vanilla ice cream, only in the form of some gimmicky edible candle that's pretty much a thing you'd only see at birthday parties for kids. How's that locally inspired? I don't fucking get it. All of us here have got dishes more rooted in Indonesian cuisine than he has, so what's the logic behind this? Now, I know the guy did us a favor in the team challenge and all, so I'm not saying he doesn't deserve the win—I'm saying there's something wrong with the decision-making here, and I think we can all agree with that."

Behold, a poorly conceived, uncogent argument. I did not care if the rest of the room was staring at Andre in utter disappointment, appalled by his lack of common sense and tact in front of world renowned chef Amelia Streisand and celebrated entrepreneur Chef Paolo Enrique De Castro. It hadn't mattered very much to the public when Chef Andre decided to take jabs at a young, sharp-tongued critic like myself with mere baby years to his name. It was simply the consumer's daily joust of viral entertainment (after all, raging chefs and drenched critics on Twitter made for fascinating creatures). But when it came to his foolish blunder of waging a war against us three altogether, the man was as good as dead.

A single glance in Leroy's direction told me all I needed to know. The look on his face was akin to a boy waiting by his window for the first sign of winter snow. He must have seen in my eyes the cue to run for cover.

Needless to say, I'd given Andre plenty of time but alas... he had not seen the signs.

"I see you ask for transparency, Chef Andre," I began by undoing the cuff of my sleeve and taking it up a fold. "Very well. Let's have another taste of your dessert. Julianna, please bring the leftovers in the freezer."

He snorted. "We don't need to—"

"Not to worry, Chef Andre. Amelia, Pao, and myself have had our fill of your dish, so we will not be the ones tasting it. Your fellow cast members will be."

"Wh—you're not making any sense. What for? It's leftovers from you three you can't possibly compare that to—"

"You asked for transparency, Chef Andre," I felt a wry smile upon my lips and knew: I was in my element. "I shall see this to the very end. First, there are three common categories you must know about: Taste, Appearance, and Theme. In this case, the challenge features two thematic issues—one, how well the star ingredient was treated in the dish, and two, its locally-inspired qualities. Tabulating the scores of each category would therefore yield an overall number to every dish and allow them to be placed in order of first to last, but I digress. I don't even need to tell you all that to refute your argument."

Poor intern Julianna had returned to the set with Andre's dessert, and after receiving the green from production on the edge of their seats for a tasty argument, presented it to me along with a spoon.

"Chef Raz," I called upon the cast member standing beside him. A neutral party. "Taste this, and tell us what you think the star ingredient is."

He obliged, and after a few seconds of frowning and processing, concluded that it had to be bananas. Just like the server did.

I turned to Andre. "Well?"

"Try it again," Andre said under his breath. Raz blinked, but again, obliged.

"Okay. Uh... chocolate?"

"Chef Andre's star ingredient is vanilla beans. Madagascar bourbon vanilla beans," I refused any further delay by cutting things short. "Chef Raz, please tell us what you think about the taste of chocolate fried bananas topped with vanilla ice cream."

"I, uh. I don't know. There's not much I can say..." He appeared slightly perplexed. "Would've been cool if the bananas weren't so... I mean, I can't tell if it's bananas with a side of ice-cream or the other way around. I guess it lacks dimension? But overall, it fits the name of the dish because, uh, it reminds me of my childhood. Adolescence, am I right? Every kid likes some chocolate."

"You are too kind," I said flatly. "Thank you for including your preferences. I, too, have mine. In fact, I am not the biggest fan of vanilla ice cream and it so happens that the winning dish is exactly that. No matter. At present, Chef Andre, it appears your dish fares poorly in both Taste and Theme but forget about appearances, let's talk local inspiration."

"You have to be blind if you think I messed that up. Both conceptually and aesthetically, the dish is exactly—"

"Don't worry, I am not about to school you on cultural appropriation. Twitter does that for you. I imagine you'd have a field day reading the comments under every clip of this episode unless this gets magically cut. Either way, there is a difference between inspiration and recreation. The former is in the spirit of respect and honor, and is also the basis of fusion cuisine, acknowledging the influences of a specific culture and infusing that into a new recipe. Recreating something and branding it with the term 'inspired by' for commercial purposes—as many amateur restaurants do—is akin to tracing an original piece of art and claiming it to be mere inspired work. Some people call that stealing but fret not, we will not be going into the specifics for the sake of your sanity. Cinder incorporated the subtleties of Indonesian sweets in his dessert: the use of ingredients like tapioca flour, grated coconut, and blue-pea flowers; applying the appearance and technique of roti jala to the chocolate casing, so on and so forth. You put chocolate in pisang goreng—oh but yes, you added to that, ice cream. Ingenious. Never would have thought. Andre, you have a Michelin star, for goodness sake. Cook like you do."

*

"We're not sending him home."

Amelia, Pao and I stared back at the director with the straightest face we could manage. Things were going exactly as Pao had anticipated.

"Look, Stan," Amelia tried to reason again. "We've been in showbiz as long as you have. Plotlines are great for ratings and all but if we pick someone else, it's only going to make us look bad. The audience isn't blind to a rigged competition. I'm sorry, but... I'm putting my foot down on this."

The director sighed, glancing at his watch as the conversation dragged beyond the arranged hour. "Amelia. You know the investors aren't going to be happy about losing a gold mine. Ratings are off the charts with people like Andre... it's proven. I'm sorry but I need you three to pick someone else." He flashed a list of color-coded names. Some, with asterisks behind them. Chef Andre's included; and surprisingly enough, Syrup's too.

There was a pause as we deliberated on elimination, staring at the list.

"... If you insist, we've got a tie between Simple Joy and The Catch..."

"Not The Catch. That's Saito's dish." Stan held up a hand to stop us mid-sentence. The surprise was evident on our faces. None of us had expected Chef Saito, out of everyone else on the cast, to produce anything short of perfection. "We're heading to Japan next and I need him in the lineup. I know this isn't ideal, but I suggest we send a Mav home. We already got the least experienced guy on the cast landing the toque—only because he's a wild card and people enjoy that narrative—so... the least you can do is compromise. If you want Cinder wearing the toque, Andre needs to stay. Simple Joy's made by a Master, so I'm fine if we're putting that on the chopping block but that's not the chef I want off the show."

Chef Amelia's lips were drawn into a thin line. "Well then, what do you expect us to do? Pull up a scapegoat from one of the Mavs?"

*

I sighed.

"That said, some of us had decent things to say about your dessert. I suggest you swallow your pride and give us good reason to preserve that thought," was all I added after a moment's pause. Tight-lipped.

With the receding avalanche came confusion and surprise from onlookers; even the supposed casualty himself had blinked in the face of danger inches away from taking him out cold. Either way, I'd done him enough damage to last a century. If this went out on national TV, he could very well bid his Michelin star farewell.

"You heard him," said Amelia to a blank-faced Andre, holding back a smile of amusement. "Take my word, chefs. It is one thing to make an enemy of Chef Pao and myself, but attempting the same with Vanilla will get you nowhere because as far as I know, only the best are worthy of standing on equal ground."

"It is time. Chef Andre, step forward. Please." He did as instructed; hands behind his back but frowning still.

"Though your dish was by no means exceptional or worthy of any restaurant, it contained elements of local cuisine and was... edible. Therefore, you may continue your journey with Kitchen Atlas and join us for our next destination." Amelia gestured toward the row of chefs standing out of the way and at once, he broke into the widest smile of relief which, quite frankly, surprised me because I'd always dubbed Andre a narcissist with unwavering confidence in himself. To think my words had put in him, a sliver of doubt.

Hm. Perhaps I should really think about taking up a full time position at some boarding school as a discipline master. How they'd tremble under my very gaze!

"Chef Tenner. Chef Raz," Pao had his hands clasped behind his back with unease. "Both of your dishes did not live up to our expectations. Chicken and waffles? We love the concept that combines traditional ayam penyet with comfort food but aye... I wish there was more finesse. Some papaya salad, or acar on the side for more dimension. Chef Raz, we liked your idea with the harissa and sambal, very delicious too, but there was no emphasis on the star ingredient. I'm sorry, but one of you... must go home." He paused before turning my way.

I spared the cast the pain of further suspense and pulled the trigger.

"... Chef Raz, thank you. Please leave your jacket at your station and prepare for your flight. Though it may seem like this is the last dish of yours we will taste, I will be paying your diner in Canary Wharf a visit very soon to personally ensure that it isn't."

____________________

[Leroy]

"... I don't get it. Tasted everything before plating up and the flavors were banging. That shit was cooked perfectly." Raz had his duffel out on the bed, unzipped as he stuffed rolls of clothing inside. "I had other proteins on the plate, sure... wasn't exactly my brightest idea, but. The fact that it cost me a spot feels... I dunno. Disproportionate."

"Should've sent Andre home."

"Exactly."

I turned to the doorway at the sound of footsteps. Sparrow had decided to drop by Raz's room with his sister.

"Sorry." She shuffled in, holding out a box of chocolates. "Didn't mean to eavesdrop but my brother got this for you. He warned me not to tell you it's hella expensive." Sparrow gave her a look. Probably knew her well enough to know she'd say it anyway.

Raz dropped everything he was doing for a glimpse of the treats. Received them with both hands. "Woah... wait seriously? You didn't have to." He leaned in for a clap on the back and all of a sudden, I wasn't the happiest guy under the sun watching him pack up. Just some guy I got acquainted with on a cooking show for the past couple of weeks but strangely enough, started feeling pretty good about ever since he saved our asses at the customs.

"Forget what I said earlier. Wasn't serious. Trust me." He pulled out his phone to type a note. "See... you... back... in London."

Same, signed Sparrow. Another one he taught me a while back on the bus ride from Jakarta's international airport. The bunch of us hung out a little longer in Raz's room, dishing out occasional comments about his things lying around while he packed and of course, theorycrafting on the shitshow that went down.

No surprises; everyone on the cast except Andre thought something was up the moment they decided to keep him around for our next destination. The dessert he made was far from the standards we were expected to cook at, and his performance in the team challenge wasn't exactly impressive either. The whole thing was an open secret; both Mavs and Masters knew he didn't deserve the spot. Half the cast raised concerns in their confessionals right after the challenge, but I was pretty sure they'd end up cutting it out of the final edit.

Raz thought they messed up his dish backstage on purpose before it was presented to the judges. Sparrow straight up said the whole show was rigged.

I thought neither. Head empty; no thoughts.

Just harping over the weather report on the chances of snow later in the evening. And that I knew him well enough to know he didn't like the idea of sending Raz home either. It was the look in his eyes.

"You're just saying that to make me feel better," Raz snorted as we piled into the elevator, headed for the fancy dinner party that was really a sponsored promotion of the resort. Sparrow and Cyan seemed to agree. "It's V. J. White we're talking about. I mean he's cool and all but everyone knows he's hella set when it comes to fair judgement. Dead neutral, you know what I mean?"

"I'm not making things up." I felt like a kid trying to explain how he knew the floor was lava. "It was obvious."

"But. I mean, no offense to Raz, mate, but it's... not like the judges were wrong about having that much luxury proteins in a dish. I dunno. Yeah. That's my take, at least," Sparrow's sister shrugged, glancing up at her brother as she signed and spoke. He nodded. "Doesn't mean they should be sending you home for that, but the star ingredient's got to shine."

"Either way, congrats on the toque." "Thanks." "First of Mavs! Hell yeah." "Look, if we end up beating the Masters at their game..." Imagine. "Crazy. But now that you've done it, I feel like it's possible. You know what I mean? Shame I'm off the show but I'll leave the rest to you guys." "I didn't do much." "Mate, Amelia and Pao were blown away." I tasted the components on their own. Phenomenal. "Flavor was all you, Tenner, and Du Bellay. I needed the second opinions." No you didn't. "Yeah. My brother said it felt like you had it all down by heart or something."

I didn't correct them. There was nothing to correct.

Most of the cast had wrapped up their solo interviews and changed into the sort of fit you'd expect to see at a beach club at sunset. All except the one snowball in dress pants and a pressed white dress shirt.

The resort had a variety of seafood and skewers sizzling over charcoal grills, lined up right beside the infinity pool and cabanas where the sound guys lounged with glasses of wine and champagne. Free-flow cocktails at the bar. A bunch of one-bite appetizers laid out on the counter. Our last night in Bali.

"Evening." Saito came over with two glasses of champagne, holding out the one on his right. "I wanted to congratulate you on your win. It was an incredibly mature dish for someone so young." I handed it to Raz instead, gaze fixed on snow in the distance.

"Wow. This is good stuff."

"Exactly. Cinder's missing out."

"Mate, this champagne's banging. I need a refill. Can I get you one before they put me on a ride to the airport?"

Snow was talking to someone. Hands empty. No wine glass, no plate—just kept politely behind his back as he listened, looking up every now and then like a deer in the forest. Hoping for a glimpse of a lion's mane.

Our eyes met.

All of a sudden, my brain cells maxed out and I suggested heading over to the bar together with Raz. This 200 IQ move was instantly rewarded by the sound of footsteps in snow and a gentle tap on my shoulder.

"Excuse me."

I turned.

He stood right behind us. Up close, I could see the ribbon keeping his hair together; gathered on his right shoulder, weaving through the chain of his glasses that swayed with his movements. It was hard not to stare.

"Hey! Perfect timing." Raz nodded at the tower of champagne glasses. "We were just getting ourselves a drink. Want one?"

"Oh. Thank you. I heard they serve Moët & Chandon... Ice Impérial, it seems. Tropical fruit and berry flavors—I'm sure you'll enjoy it. But, um." He tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. "I'm not exactly here for the party. I'd just... like to have a word with the gentleman to your right."

Gesturing politely and referring to me as 'gentleman' was straight up foreplay.

"Just one word."

He cleared his throat, giving me a look. "It's a figure of speech, Chef Cinder. Keep that up and perhaps I'd really have just one word for you."

"Okay let's hear it."

"Wh... why are you like this."

"That's more than one word."

"What a lively conversation." Someone with the nerve to come between us in the middle of our fun. "Mind if I join?"

I saw the light in his eyes shift without turning to look at the unwarranted presence. Made a wild guess. Not recognizing his voice off the bat showed how little we'd actually interacted over the past couple of years; how little I'd bothered to remember any of it.

"Chef Cox! Join us, please," Raz held out the glass of champagne for the second time. "Can't believe the resort's sponsoring bottles of Moët & Chandon. We doing partnerships or something? Do we have the investors to thank?"

"The episode's sponsored by the national tourism board and some of our investors happen to have connections with the team running the resort. Will Carter, for one, owns one of the yachts docked at the private harbor. Comes here every summer, I believe." Siegfried clinked his glass against Raz's and reached for the batch of fresh tempura shrimp the servers had laid out on the counter. "Either way, you chefs deserve it. I was telling... the other day—"

I tuned out the moment I realized he was back at it with the small talk. The guy was a natural. Known it all my life. He got along with everyone; or at least knew how to push the right buttons. It was what he used to say all the time.

"—and most importantly, our winner right here."

There was really only one person in the room (on the shore, beach, thing) I wanted as company at the present moment and I was looking at him. In my head, we were planning our escape to the suite we shared.

"Congratulations, Cinder. You had just one ingredient presented in your box and against all odds, you rose to the challenge. It was incredible." "I keep telling him that. Just one ingredient when they could've given him a choice of ten? Crazy." "Indeed... almost as though your loved one had something against you appearing on TV." "Reckon it's your mum, eh? Vanilla pods are kind of specific, you know what I mean? Could be a kid who hates ya. A lover wouldn't do you in like that."

He was turning pink by the second.

"My apologies, gentlemen." He fixed the angle of his glasses and bowed his head. Pale hair falling gently with his movements. Soft. "Chef Pao insists I have a go at the creamed scallop canapés and perkedels. Excuse me while I... indulge myself in..." He gestured to some palm trees in the distance. Very cute. "Goodbye."

To see him reduced to a walking dictionary after a day of criminal brain activity thanks to yours truly felt like the achievement of a lifetime. Much more than winning the toque. Either way, this was the cue I was waiting for. All I had to do was tap out of this conversation.

Of course, Siegfried had a problem with that. "Cinder. I was hoping we could speak privately. Do you have five minutes?"

"I'm going to enjoy the rest of my evening."

There was no need for further explanation. It was clear spending extra seconds with Siegfried discussing the recovery of my tastebuds and future plans did not fit the bill of an enjoyable evening. Raz was the man; he roped him in for another conversation about sponsors and I thanked him in my head.

Just when peace was a thing and I had my eyes on a night full of winter snow (standing before the bar counter, an empty plate in hand and every movement, slow and deliberate, waiting for the flicker of a flame), marking that spot beside him and heading straight for gold—

"Cinder!"

Fuck.

Knew it. Higher power above wasn't about to make things easy after dishing out win after win in the past couple of chapters. At my shoulder was side character E with the sole, primary goal of getting between me and an evening full of fresh falling snow: Syrup.

"Cinder? Wait up." "..." "You left so quickly after the confessionals. I was waiting outside to congratulate you—" "Great. Thanks. I'm busy now."

His smile froze as though someone had hit pause on his video. Clearly, the interaction wasn't going as planned. "As... a... professional pastry chef, I was um, surprised by your... ability to come up with a dessert so complex and theatrical. And to actually deliver in the end, it's... it's very impressive, coming from a chef without an extensive background in sweets. You should be proud of yourself."

"I am." I turned to him for the first time. "I'm also busy."

He ignored the second part. "Oh, great! You should have told me sooner about this hidden talent of yours. Since you're such a natural at desserts, why don't we team up again for the next challenge? We'd land the advantage easy."

Part of me wanted to toss a match into the straw hut and watch it come ablaze without thinking of the consequences but knowing I'd be spending the next couple of days in a whole new environment with the rest of the cast reminded me of the stuff they'd taught us as rookies back at the station.

Whatever happens, put your fires out.

"I'm not thinking about teams until tomorrow. Tonight's chill. I just want some time to myself," I laid out plainly, feeling the phone in my back pocket buzz from a text—the perfect reason to wrap this up and arrive at the highlight of my evening. "Gotta take this."

I left with my phone in hand, weaving past servers and camera crew standing around the beach club, enjoying some jazz on the beach. Glancing down at my screen, I noticed it wasn't actually a text I received.

The buzz was a notification from an app I'd installed.

Device in range. Connect?

It took two seconds for the pieces to come together and for me to recognize the app icon in the most unassuming shade of black. I tapped on the pop-up for details.

And details I got.

The interface looked exactly like how I remembered it a couple of days ago, having downloaded the app and pulled it up for the first time after Googling the product I came across in a certain someone's suitcase. Except this time, the sliders weren't greyed out.

Everything was lit up.

Buttons and toggles; labeled and ready to go. Wasn't sure if my instincts were going in the right direction, so I brought the slider for speed up to a two and watched. Several feet away, I heard the clink of a fork against the counter top. He'd dropped it by accident.

In case you haven't read the past hundred chapters of this long-ass series about candles and snow, this wasn't my first time getting blown away by the experience that was Vanilla Julian White. He had a knack for knocking the breath out of me every now and then, but out in public was definitely not on my list of predictable outcomes.

I watched him stare into space for a good second before slowly reaching for the fork, resting his other hand on the edge of the counter for support. No one seemed to notice the pink dusting his ears and it took him less than half a minute to recover, returning to the selection of appetizers laid out.

Suspicions confirmed, I cycled through the options for rhythm. There were at least four different pulses with three separate drive modes. Whatever that meant was for us to find out.

The effect was immediate.

I made my entrance without a word, appearing by his shoulder and counting the number of treats he considered worthy enough to land a spot on his plate. One.

He jumped when he noticed a presence right beside him but breathed a sigh as soon as he realized it was me and no one else. He said nothing; only got back to surveying the rest of the appetizers and reading every label like his life depended on it. None of the first half seemed to interest him very much, and when he made a non-verbal expression of interest in the section farther down, I made no indication to move out of his way. On purpose.

He cleared his throat, glancing up at me and adjusting his glasses with a stern look on his face. I pretended not to notice. The side of his arm brushed against mine, leaning close to encourage movement down the line but all I did was meet his gaze and muse privately—impressed by his ability to mask the struggles he was currently experiencing elsewhere.

The tension was unreal.

"If I didn't know you, I'd think you were being impolite."

I glanced down at the topmost button of his shirt before going back up to his eyes. "Why is that."

"I wonder." He was in the mood for some play, sidestepping the obstacle that was me and moving down the display to browse the dessert section. I watched him add a tiny square of blue-white kue to his plate after reading its label. Curious to see what else piqued his interest, I pointed out a tray of purple rice cakes topped with vanilla creme.

"That does sound very inviting but I must say," he picked up the label, read it, and placed it back down. "It wouldn't surprise me if every other dish with vanilla in it started feeling a little dull. Not after the phenomenal Company."

I stared. "... You're flirting."

"I—no...! No, I'm... I'm praising you. Subjectively. In a state of truth. Wait, no, that makes no sense at all. Forget I said anything."

"So you were flirting. Nice."

"Oh be quiet," he huffed, feeling a smile tugging on his lips and giving in for a heartbeat. His eyes then went to my hands and seemed to notice I wasn't holding a plate. "Aren't you hungry? I was sure they hadn't provided refreshments all afternoon... a couple of side dishes wouldn't hurt. And, w-well, now that... you know. The sweets, too. Some local desserts, perhaps. We're in a world-renowned resort that boasts multiple culinary awards. It would be a pity not to—"

"The real pity is if we don't hurry the fuck up before I have you bent over the counter," I cut to the chase.

His jaw dropped on cue and his entire frame froze. It took him moments to snap out of it, hastily looking around and thanking the heavens under his breath that no one was within earshot. A hand reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. Redder than before.

"Cinder." He paused, as though to collect himself. "This is a public space. You cannot stroll into the room—terrace, beach... bar, club, thing, area, a-and and and start a conversation with words like that. It is simply not allowed."

"Really." I unlocked my phone, bumping speed up to a four. "I could say the same."

"—?!"

The effect was immediate; he started like a deer, lips quivering as his teeth sank right down in surprise and restraint. His eyes flew shut for two whole seconds, doing his best to keep his voice down and trying to make sense of things at the same time.

"It was you?" He managed.

It was impossible not to smirk. He had a hand on his chest while he raised his gaze to meet mine. "But, how... how did you—"

"You really should've told me you bought the one with the app." I started off slow; watched as he shifted his legs. His fingers, grazing the countertop for balance. "It tracks the speed," I scrolled, "rhythm," scrolled again, "temperature," again, "and strength," leaning over with the screen of my phone in full view, playing with the sliders while he watched. Helpless.

The teasing brought the heat in the air up to a whole new high.

"They had a...? It can't be. The product came with a remote, which I'm sure I stored in my suitcase. I thought something had triggered the... when it started, all of a sudden... well. Clearly, the remote was nowhere near... m... will you stop... playing with th—!"

I shut it off.

A near whimper had almost made its way past his lips. Taking things any further in public would've guaranteed an arrest warrant.

The next couple of seconds was him trying to recover from the hard-hitting surprise. What I hadn't expected though, was his eyes to lower briefly—half-lidded in disappointment.

"You... you really turned it off."

"What else should I have done?" I was ablaze, maxing speed in a go. "This?"

"Ha—! Leroy." He held fast onto my arm in a frantic whisper, alias out the window and party plans at the beach club, abandoned. "I... god, you're infuriating..."

I took one step closer, lowering my voice but still, unable to resist the idea of fun.

"Remember when the world's greatest critic said he didn't like the idea of fire and ice on a plate...?"

"..." He paused, eyes refusing to meet mine. "Oh I should've known. I asked if it bothered you back then a-and and and you—I knew it. To think you've always been so fixated on proving me wrong! Wouldn't even be surprised if you joined the cast to do just that."

"Pretty good concept, don't you think? They go well together. Hot and cold." "Yes, yes they do. Sometimes. Not always." "Name me one time—" "You know perfectly well that I am in no condition to think, let alone—" "So you got nothing." "Wh... stop. Don't look at me like that. We're leaving. Now." "Not going anywhere until you spell it out for me." "I can't believe you. Fine! I was wrong. Now will you quit the competition? I'll pay for the backout clause." "I like the idea of annoying you for the rest of the show." "You're not actually thinking of winning are you?" "Already won when I got Mr. White to admit he was wrong." "Oh be quiet. You are awful. How do you expect me to find vanilla ice cream anywhere else after the one you served today? You've ruined it for me, Leroy. Now face the, um... the consequence!" "Best deal ever." "... I'm not quite sure you know what it is I'm referring to." "Pretty sure it's sex." "... I—you didn't have to put it so bluntly but I fear you are correct. H... how did you know?" "As though I haven't been waiting to face the consequences for the past seven fucking years of my life." "You are far too excited." "Yes." "You were supposed to deny that." "Yes." "I see how this has somehow reduced your vocabulary to a single word." "Yes." "As I thought."