A/N: Eep! I'm so sorry I haven't been able to update the past couple of weeks. I hope the Valentine's Day special coming up next Sunday would appease your hungry beany souls ;v; hehe. You can vote for the V-Day special on my Instagram Story at hisangelchip ^^ 

Thank you so much for being patient and waiting. It's a fairly long chapter as we peer more into Vanvan settling down in London.

__________________________

"Oh that's bloody ridiculous! You can't go around smashing windows—it's a BMW for god's sake. Do you know how much I have to pay to get them fixed?"

"Your car violated the law by parking in front of a fire hydrant, ma'am," said the crew member with dyed reddish hair, a streak of fire on her tongue. "You face the consequences."

I paused several feet from the guardhouse, coming to a stop some safe distance away from the conflict. With the commotion brewing just right in front of the gate, the odds of myself having to part the group in a conspicuous manner was nearly guaranteed.

Either way, hand-picking a couple of terms from their heated exchange allowed a decent presentation of the matter at hand. The team had been on a call—likely something structural in nature, which therefore required the use of a hydrant—some time yesterday and an optimized operation called for a specific hydrant which, unfortunately, this lady had parked her car right in front of. Hence, the broken windows.

"Oh don't be such a bitch. You wouldn't be acting this way if it were your car getting destroyed by a bunch of fools forgetting that they could just thread a hose around a car."

"Ma'am? I need you to calm down. Our chief's coming right out to speak with you regarding the uh, the situation, okay?" This was the guard returning to his post from making a call to what I assumed was the administrative office. He had his hands slightly forward to put some distance between the car owner and the crew members.

"We can't thread the hose around because that way, we'd be losing pressure from—"

"Save your breath, rookie. She's not gonna understand."

"Wow." At this, the woman scoffed, folding her arms with her head held high. "You are a rude little bitch. Does your manager know about this?"

Admittedly, this nearly had myself itching a laugh. The female crew member, as well as her companion on probation, burst out in unrestrained mirth. Aside, the guard was trying hard not to entertain their contagious laughter.

"We don't have a manager," said one of them after some time, with the straightest face they could manage. "The mall's the other way."

One could tell from the look on the car owner's face how madly eager she was to launch a committed attack on the crew members when her rage fortunately quelled with the appearance of the station's bureau chief. And alongside him, a certain idiot.

There was something oddly endearing about the added presence of Chicken tailing behind his owner some distance away, only to stop at the end of the engine bay, wagging his tail in good patience. Needless to say, I was on the receiving end of some heated surprise. Well I suppose the rest of his team hadn't quite told him about me dropping by just yet; what with the car owner's sudden appearance at the station.

I moved slightly out of the way, giving them the space to handle the situation and also checking the time.

Even the station's chief had a look of standard procedure, giving the impression that he might as well have expected the complaint. "Yes ma'am. How may I assist you?"

"I want to see the men who hammered through my car windows yesterday and I want an apology and compensation. That, or I'm suing your station for damages." This was not going to pass. Well, according to the law, it wasn't.

"Woman, you parked in front of a hydrant—" "Oh come on you're wasting your time." "It wasn't like we had a choice, ma'am." "I don't want to hear any excuses from you all! A broken window costs—" "Yeah, yeah, a BMW." "Alright, who broke the windows?"

The question hung in the air, posed by the station's chief to an odd silence of reluctant, exchanged looks. Pointing fingers did not seem like something they would do.

"I broke them." Heads turned. I was nearly indifferent; of course it had to be him.

"It was half-half," said the probational member, stepping forth. "I did the other."

"You were following instructions," his senior laid out before turning to the car owner with a lack of expression in his eyes. "I'll apologize. But asking for compensation is fucked up."

He was met with a scoff, albeit the look of charmed surprise that I, and likely everyone else in front of the gate, had noticed. "Alright then. You can apologize and pay up in court, darling."

Leroy and his station chief were the only ones without a reaction to the car owner's declaration of legal war. Most of everyone else clearly did not like the hassle of having more trouble added to their already-ridiculous list of things to do. Indeed, it was going to be a waste of time for all parties involved, especially with the verdict being quite clear as day. Some minimal, basic knowledge of civil law would have sufficed.

As such, I felt obliged to intervene. After all, no one should be deprived of information that would greatly assist with the planning of limited time. Limited time in which we spend in existence.

"Excuse me, ma'am." Heads turned. "I couldn't help but, um, partake in your... heated discussion, and if you'd allow a humble opinion...? What I'm trying to say is that, well, unless you'd prefer to add to your bill the court and hearing fees apart from your repairs and the hefty fine you received, I suggest you not proceed with the claim. Reason being, within public authorities' core areas, it has been clearly stated that there will be no liability unless the relevant civil service creates a new hazard or make matters worse than not turning up at all.

"On a wider basis, this is meant to discourage all who think that failings by public authorities exercising statutory functions should lead to liability, which is ridiculous if you ask me. Villainizing the only people capable of resolving the situation would make anyone look like quite the fool." Alright Vanilla, that's enough, you're crossing into the realm of harsh opinion and hence increasing the likelihood of offending a stranger. Take that back. "O-of course, that does not refer directly to you, ma'am. Simply a general, sweeping opinion that, um, should not apply to... never mind."

A brief, obligatory glimpse of the eyes on me saw a mixture of surprise, awe and confusion. An idiot in the back mused privately, presenting an indecent, nearly fatal smile over his shoulder.

"I... I've never heard of such a thing," snorted the car owner with a laugh, albeit clearly nervous. She appeared slightly less confident than she was moments ago. "Who are you anyway?"

"A mere human being in passing," I admitted, slightly embarrassed. "It is up to you whether or not the information is relevant and true. I simply did not wish for either of you to waste your time and money."

"Oh that's bollocks," she chose to say, rolling her eyes and backing away from the gate. Seemingly defeated at present. "That's... my lawyer will be speaking to you very soon." She had a finger pointed at the crew in general before turning on her heel and stalking off.

The silence that ensued was wholly unexpected. I'd imagined the female crew member to be shooting indecent fingers at the car owner's back but her eyes were fixed on me. And so were everyone else's. I attempted to sidestep the guard and make for the gate behind him.

"Cox's buddy. Right?"

I paused; then angled myself to face the station chief. "Yes. Sorry for eavesdropping on the conversation. Please enjoy the bagels. I'll be taking my leave now."

"Stop by again some time," he offered in return, extending a hand. I had to undo the couple of steps I'd taken to reach for it. "We appreciate a good gentleman. How and why you're friends with this guy over here is completely beyond us, by the way."

The guard laughed, exchanging a look with the female crew member to Leroy's right. "What I was about to say. How'd you guys know each other?"

"Oh we were just playmates," I said without much thought. An appalling second later, I soon wished I had the common sense to learn my lesson from seven years ago.

As expected the rest of the crew had similar reactions that I was unfortunately familiar with. I could not look said idiot in the eye.

"Pl—playmates?" Even the probational member sounded amused and myself, now a terribly particular linguist, sought ways to make a disappearance.

"As kids." He finally clarified, saving me from disastrous embarrassment. Again, I did not look him in the eye and this quite regrettably allowed for him to close the distance without my notice. By the time I did, he was within arm's reach; a perfect invasion of personal space in front of the public eye and and and good god did he continue to infuriate my very existence.

"You came." His eyes searched mine. "You didn't have to."

"Oh look, I make my own decisions," I said as soon as that criminal smile began to disarm me in all my serious glory. "Judging from the box of expired cereal in your kitchen, breakfast isn't something you care to understand which I'm sure would be highly frustrating for your fellow crew members as well. I imagine they wouldn't be too happy working with an unfed, incompetent colleague. Oh and there's a pack of aspirin in the bag. Although from the state you are in, I might be convinced that you wouldn't be needing it."

"For hangovers?" The corners of his lips were illegally provocative in their up-turn. "You were worried about me."

I quite nearly gave up. "Ah yes, what a brilliant observation. Ingenious. Never would have thought."

"Hey, uh, Cox. Once you guys done flirting, there's supposedly a meeting in the conference room now." The streak of reluctance to intervene was written all over the guard's face and a single glance around us confirmed that everyone else had returned to the station. "So uh... yeah."

"Oh we're not flirting," I had to clarify, surprisingly calm. "This idiot right here—"

"Planning for the wedding," Leroy tapped his temple with a smile that was play and I was very much done with him, heading past the gate to flag down a hackney.

______________________

Perhaps the last thing on my mind to occur within reasonable expectation was a student of mine asking, quite forwardly, if I may add, for my phone number at the end of my very first lecture.

Needless to say, I was mildly infamous in the industry. Geographical location was irrelevant. As soon as I'd stepped into the school and made my way to the reception, the staff excused herself from the phone call she was very apparently busy with and came up to greet me with the most fearful look in her eyes—as though my very presence called for an unholy level of respect. We had a very shallow conversation about the weather before spending some time at the ground floor, going through the school's past achievements and alumni faces down the hallway to the student-run café. At the end of the single-floor tour, she'd directed me to the headmaster's office and there, I met an old friend.

"Nillie! Oh my god you're so early and so cute in those suspenders," Layla Tenner, once the youngest head chef of VIDA, a three-star Michelin restaurant in Portugal, had surprised the industry by retiring early and taking up a teaching position at Le Cordon Bleu. It was upon learning who, exactly, it was who'd invited her that made the decision somewhat reasonable.

"It's been some time," I managed through one of her tight hugs, observing the roots of her dyed hair. I did not recall being able to see the top of her head; which quite pleasantly meant that I'd grown since my last year at culinary school.

"Chen's in the conference room with his dad and the rest of the faculty. They told me to receive you first. You have a lecture in thirty minutes, I think...?" She reached up to tidy my hair; a habit she'd adopted somewhere along the way back then and never seemed to kick. "How's my baby lion?"

"Fighting fires."

"Because he's so insufferably hot?"

I disconnected. "..." Well. "Perhaps."

"Interesting." Her smile turned wry, dark lips matching the shade of her heels. She looked different; a tad mature in dressing and make-up alike but it had, after all, been several years since we last met. "You've met Royroy already? So the suspenders are for him, then."

"A tragic misunderstanding I'm afraid, but yes," I admitted after a slight clearing of the throat. "We met for dinner."

"Just dinner?" Layla sounded perfectly confused. "Outrageous!"

I assured her we thought nothing of it, glancing over my shoulder every now and then just in case Chen's stepfather, the school's headmaster decided to show up in his office after the board meeting.

"That can't be right. He must've made some move—good god, I am disappointed. Give me his coordinates."

"No need for coordinates, Layla." Yet another familiar voice from the left side of the room, in the doorway between bookshelves I hadn't noticed. "Some fool could attend one of Sammy's classes and burn down the entire building. Cox would be here in seconds flat."

"No one's burning down buildings and asking for coordinates," I established in front of world-renowned chefs, reduced to the maddening first-second pair I unfortunately had the privilege of being around during the first quarter of my culinary school years. "Additionally, I do not recall there ever being a hard and fast rule about him being the one to... make a move, or so you've put."

"Nillie!" Layla had nearly exclaimed, her surprise reflected on Chen's face. "You mean to say you... you invited him to spend the—"

"Chef Carson," I greeted at once, startled by his quiet presence in the doorway Layla and Chen had their backs faced towards. "We meet again. Thank you for the invitation. It is an incredible honour."

"Have a seat, Mr. White." The headmaster gestured to the corner of his private library where a matching sofa set sectioned out a nice little seating area. "How was the flight? Just two days and I see you've been... making your rounds in the media."

Carson was stepfather to Chen from the latter's idle childhood in Chongqing, China, before the family moved to Shanghai for his biological mother's work. There, Chef Carson continued to pursue his passion for the culinary world and combined his knowledge from attending school at the CIA, Culinary Institute of America, with traditional Chongqing cuisine to set up his own restaurant. Chen, then nine, had helped from time to time but eventually found his place in the realm of pastries. After years of progress and consistent, superb reviews from world-renowned critics, Chef Carson eventually settled down with a volunteer culinary institute that gave lessons to disadvantaged youths free of charge. Somehow, this led to him being offered a position at Le Cordon Bleu, and things progressed from there.

Chen had spoken about joining the faculty just last year. Layla was... a surprise. As she often proved herself to be.

"As people under Chef Andre's radar often end up in. I'll have my PR team on it, should the situation develop unfavourably. I will not have them say a thing about your school."

Chef Carson was a good-humoured man. "You have a PR team now? Glace must be doing very well then. But don't worry. Use the PR team for other purposes... I heard some production company for TV's inviting you to be a judge on their new... uh... thing?"

"There... have been rumours, yes," I paused. "Does that bother you as well?"

This made him laugh. Somewhere behind, Chen and Layla mused privately over our conversation.

"I truly appreciate the concern you're showing for the school, Mr. White, but have you seen the students? They'd be thrilled to have you. Ah yes, you were supposed to see Mrs. Saul. She's our head consultant for cuisine and menu design."

"She called in sick this morning, actually." Heads turned to yet another woman standing in the doorway, eyes fixed on an iPad in her arms. "The instructions she left for Mr. White is as follows: You'll be fine."

I nearly resorted to nervous laughter. "I-is that all?"

"She's not wrong," Layla came over to my side of the sofa seat with a consolation pat on the shoulder. "It isn't your first time giving a lecture or coming up with a semester's worth of curriculum. And Saul was impressed by the syllabus you proposed too, so as long as you follow the schedule we discussed, the module should go smoothly."

"How old are they again?"

"Eighteen, youngest. But guest modules for the semester are only offered to third years and above, so... twenty, youngest."

I must have appeared tremendously fazed because Chen soon burst out laughing and reached over to mess with my hair. "Admittedly, I hadn't quite factored in the consideration of myself being twenty-two, lecturing students possibly older than myself. Either way, I'd say I'm used to it. Though class discipline isn't something I am too fond of enforcing. No phones in class, is that correct?"

The four faculty members in the room exchanged a look.

*

"Hey. Need any help?"

I looked up. A girl in her whites had stopped in her tracks and glanced over her shoulder, books in her arms and a clipboard sandwiched between her elbow and the stack of books.

"Oh um. Yes, actually. I'm looking for the... the lecture theatre with the AV-technology?"

"With or without demonstration areas?" She peered at the screen of my phone that displayed a campus map of the school.

"Without."

"There's only one of that, then. I'll show you there." She winked. It took me seconds to register.

"That would be... very nice. Thank you."

She led the way, gaze taking in my out-of-place attire. "First day?"

"Yes. Oh. You meant... then no," I corrected myself upon realizing what she was referring to. That I was a student here at the school. "I um, I'm the lecturer for Global Cuisine and Menu Design. It's a guest module for the semester."

"Wow," she raised a brow with a smile that reminded one of a fox. "You don't look any more than twenty-five."

"Ah... yes." I debated the matter of revealing my age before deciding against it. "Thank you."

"What's your name?"

"White."

"Chef White?"

"No I'm not a chef, actually. I'm a critic."

We were heading up the stairs to the second floor when she stopped at the landing and turned around to stare directly into my eyes. "Wait. V. J. White? God, you look so cute in real life!"

Nervous laughter was due. "Y-yes, that would be me. Although, um, the latter part, I'm not so sure."

"The gentlemanly sort, you know what I mean?" She nearly giggled; and perhaps it was simply my imagination, but there seemed to be less distance between us walking on the second floor as compared to the first. "Refined. Elegant. Classy."

"Well—I, um. Thank you."

The student led me to a door labelled 'Lecture Theatre 3' before whipping out her phone and holding it out towards me. Naturally, this was a mildly confusing gesture. "Would you date one of your students?"

Startled, flabbergasted by her advances, I could only blink furiously in return. "Sorry. I'm not sure I—"

"Take my phone, silly!" She laughed. "Put your number in there."

"I'm very sorry but I prefer not to," was all I managed without choking, unable to look her in the eye. "This is far from appropriate and I mean no offense, but I do not know what to think of anyone who'd exchange numbers with a complete strangers regardless of their extended relationship of tutor and student. Excuse me." I entered the class and headed for the teacher's desk, practically afraid to look over my shoulder at the general unpleasantness that my words would have left on her face.

Less than half the class were present five minutes before the arranged start of my lecture but the students who were present had the courtesy and respect to fill the front-row seats first. Of course, the 'no phones in class' policy served little to no purpose when every other student began whipping out the phones and pointing them my way in broad daylight.

"Could I perhaps request your phones to be put away as stated in the rules and regulations?"

"Class hasn't started though. It only applies then," said a girl right down the middle, the back of her phone following me as I made my way to the projector switch. Then, back to the table to connect my laptop and pull up the powerpoint slides.

I had no comment. In fact, the very first page of a recent masterpiece on social psychology titled To Understand the Potato by L. O. Red had stated the basis of human decision-making: to do that which they are precisely told not to.

As such, I was not going to make a complete fool out of myself by demanding the students—and those who filtered in five minutes after I'd started the lecture—to put their phones away and stop taking pictures and videos of a very informative lesson on the characteristics of Southeast Asian Cuisine.

Lo and behold, ten minutes before the end of a perfect first class at Le Cordon Bleu, the doors to my left burst open and some student in their chef's whites, specked with blotches of red, started shouting about someone on the brink of death.

"Where's your instructor?"

"Chef Sammy's on her way to the headmaster's office," said the pale, very young boy who looked no more than eighteen. I dismissed the class at once and followed him next door, spotting a first-aid kit in the middle of the hallway in which Chef Sammy must've been quite the fool not to have known. I grabbed that.

"Are none of your classmates first-aid certified?"

"We are." He said nervously as we sped down the rest of the hallway and passed the vestibule leading to a production kitchen. Everything looked frightfully familiar. "W-we're just. I mean, it's a finger."

"Oh good god. This isn't high school. None of you should be losing fingers at this age."

"But it's our first week..."

I turned corners to see a bunch of ten or so students in their whites crowded over a figure on the floor—others peering under stoves, islands and cabinets as though looking for something. I parted the commotion to see a petite girl, passed out, head propped up on the lap of another student furiously wrapping her left hand in cloth. I stopped her, taking over with the first-aid kit.

"Someone call the school nurse. Your instructor cannot possibly be taking this long at the headmaster's office doing absolutely nothing. That's not where she should be going to get help." Someone got up and bolted out the door.

"Um, sir? Are you a..."

"Perhaps someone else could explain exactly what happened to the victim?" I secured the bandage and had the student closest to the girl keep the latter's left arm raised.

"I was at the station beside hers. All I heard was some screaming and then she was holding her hand and there was a lot of blood—I think it was the chopper. I don't know but this morning, she said she wasn't feeling too good." "She was up studying for basic theory. Her light was on at four a.m." "Wait, so she chopped..." "Part of her middle finger."

So that's what the rest of the class are looking for.

"We'll need more people on the search team. It needs to be packed in something airtight and then preferably in an ice box before the ambulance... god, EMS." I got out my phone and went straight to dialling for emergency services. If their instructor had done so earlier, so be it. There was no harm calling twice.

"15 Bloomsbury Square, Le Cordon Bleu. A student's chopped off her middle finger." I checked the victim's breathing, directing those around her to other parts of the kitchen to give the girl some space. "She passed out soon after. Not sure if it's due to blood loss or exhaustion."

The emergency dispatcher on the other end assured me right away that they had someone arriving in less than five minutes before asking follow-up questions and giving instructions. All I had to do was listen and execute.

"Found it!" Oh thank god. "Get me a Ziplock!" "Where's the ice box?"

Minutes later, a flustered woman in her whites burst through the doors with perhaps half the faculty (I exaggerate, but you get my point) behind her trying to see past her shoulders. "Uhhh uh, is Acacia alright? She passed out? Can someone get the school nurse?"

I told her that the ambulance would be arriving soon and would therefore require some directing to the kitchen. Her response to ask for my name. I was gobsmacked. "I am the guest lecturer teaching next door."

"Oh. But guests aren't allowed in the kitchens without the appropriate attire. Which one of you called him—"

"Aaalright Sammy, go downstairs and wait for emergency," Chen had his hand on her shoulder, turning her away from the kitchen and towards the door. "No wait. Someone else go with her. The rest of you—out. No, I didn't mean bring the finger with you. Yes, leave the box on the island. You, what's your name?" He posed to the girl who'd propped her unconscious classmate's head on her lap.

"Polina Kiev... do I go too?"

"No, you stay. Lift her hand a little higher." Chen neared, taking one look at the victim's hand. "You did the bandaging?" He turned to me. I nodded once. "Looks professional."

"It's not going to hold much longer. She's losing a lot of blood and... well you can already see it seeping through."

Some commotion in the corridor and approximately another minute later, voices were heard.

"In here."

Then, it was the doors again and as though I hadn't already seen half fire department twelve this morning, here they were again. Chen's first reaction was to laugh. I could not look anyone in the eye and decided upon the floor.

"You know your school's had two EMSs in the span of a week, Chef," said a certain idiot to patisserie dean of Le Cordon Bleu, glancing my way with a musing gleam whilst perfecting the bandage-wrap on the victim's hand. "Trying to break some record of yours?"

"How the fuck are you guys covering Holborn?" Chen turned over his shoulder to ask the rest of Leroy's team—two of them. One, the probational member, and the other, the crew member who'd shown me around the station. "You're supposed to be in Dulwich."

"You got unlucky. We were in the area running another EMS," said Jung whilst prepping the stretcher. The probational member assisted.

"How long has she been out for?" He turned to ask.

"Approximately twenty minutes." I watched him nod, check her breathing, and then her pupils.

"Her name?"

"Lily," said Kiev, her classmate.

"Lily can you hear me?" He said whilst getting into position to lift her off the ground. I leaned in to help but he had her limp body in his arms in a single motion, transferring her to the stretcher that his team had prepped.

W-well. No reason to be surprised. Picking people up as though they weighed nothing was, um, completely normal behaviour for the fire department.

"The finger?"

"The box on the island," directed Chen. "Sorry for the trouble."

"Same instructor?" Leroy snorted. The dean could only sigh. "Restructure your hiring process?"

"End up hiring no one?" Chen fired back.

"Fire the faculty?"

"Close the school?"

"Burn it down?"

All this was being said while the team strapped the girl up and started wheeling her out the door. Two members were required; Leroy stayed behind with some papers attached to a clipboard. He held it out to Chen, who then jerked a thumb my way instead. The idiot turned, slowly, almost as though the moment was to be relished and appreciated.

"Mr. White."

I unclipped the pen from the board and was at once grateful for something to look at instead of an infuriatingly attractive person in his uniform. "The school would like to thank you for the swift response, Mr. Cox."

"..."

I filled in the blanks and handed the papers back to him. Only then did I notice the expression on his face and how strange it was to see the slight streak of confusion previously prevalent in our everyday lives back in culinary school. I waited for clarifying questions. Instead, he had the gall to... to—!

"Say that again."

"Oh. Well. The school would like to..."

"No, just the last part."

He'd wasted a grand total of my three precious seconds while I processed his request and confirmed, once again, how much of an idiot he was. As expected, I dismissed him on the spot. He actually refused.

"What are you doing tonight?"

"Leroy, you're on a seventy-two. There is no need to know what I am up to in the evening," I established before, well, feeling mildly guilty for leaving him in the dark. It shouldn't come as a surprise or offend him very much if I were to be honest though. So I went with it. "If you're that curious... I'm heading to Siegfried's for a five-course."