“Wait, do you like it?”

Robin blinks, and the world rushes back into his ears. “Of course, it’s very good,” he quickly reassures Oliver. He picks up his half of the salmon bagel and takes a bite. It seems to convince Oliver enough to return to eating.

The bagel is good—Robin can appreciate all the different elements that have come together. But it’s unusually difficult not to focus on Oliver eating. From the flutter of his eyes, to the swallow of his throat. Oliver enjoys it wholeheartedly.

Perhaps it’s because Robin hasn’t enjoyed simply eating for so long—so much of his work involves taste testing, and he has to be critical about it.

They move onto the roasted cauliflower and hummus, brighter with its addition of tomato and lemon.

“I just realised,” Oliver says, when he’s finished but Robin’s not. “It’s been over a month since I started coming to your shop.”

Robin blinks, and swallows his food. “Has it been that long already?”

“And yet, I still don’t know your favourite colour,” Oliver jokes. “Or what football team you root for.”

“Ah, but there lies strife and misery,” Robin says, lips quirking. “My sister supports the women’s Carlton Blues, and whatever you supported before no longer matters.”

Oliver makes a mock gasp of surprise. “Your sister is even more evil. So that’s where you got it from.”

“She’ll recruit you for saying that.”

“Recruit?”

“Into her evil organisation.” Robin winks. “You’ll start out as a henchman first. But don’t worry, you’re pretty enough to climb the ranks quickly.”

Oliver laughs, and his cheeks are flush. Robin’s chest tightens inexplicably. Oliver is just so…

“Handsome is the word you’re looking for,” Oliver says, smiling and tilting his head. “You want to head out, now?” he asks, motioning to Robin’s now empty plate.

Robin forcefully relaxes his shoulders. Is handsome really the word he’s looking for? “Sure, there’s cake calling your name.” He insists on splitting the bill, but Oliver ends up paying it all.

“You know,” Oliver says, as they’re walking back to Robin’s dessert shop, “You never told me your favourite colour. Avoiding it, hey?”

“Interested for some reason?” Robin drawls, just because he can.

Oliver flushes. “Okay, there goes my birthday plan for you!”

Cute, Robin thinks, is the word he’s looking for, which doesn’t make sense because Oliver’s the same age as him. Robin pushes these facts aside.

“It’s green,” Robin says, after enjoying how flustered Oliver is. “Matcha green.”

Oliver’s eyes brighten. “Oh, yeah. What about creamy colours? Brown chocolate? Red strawberries?”

Robin hums. “Are those your favourite colours?”

“Not blue,” Oliver says, wrinkling his nose. “Not many desserts are blue, are they?”

“There is butterfly pea flower tea,” Robin says. “There are some nice pictures of it being gradiented from purple to blue.”

“Well, if you made it, then I’ll like it,” Oliver says. “It just reminds me of when my older brother mixed blue paint with water…”

Robin gives Oliver a pat. “There, there, I’m sorry for your traumatic experience.” His hand slides off Oliver’s shoulder as they arrive at his shop. He unlocks it, and takes Oliver to the back.

Oliver’s eyes are wide. “Wow, it’s tight in here.”

“A lot of commercial kitchens are, actually,” Robin says absently. He pulls out the matcha mousse cake from the fridge, and cuts up two slices—the larger one is for Oliver, being sure to get in two strawberries on top.

“It’s on the house again, isn’t it?” Oliver says in a put-out tone that doesn’t at all match the bright anticipation in his eyes as he accepts his plate. “I’ll have to ask you out to brunch again.”

“Oh, the horror.”

Robin already knows how the mousse cake tastes—silky and creamy matcha that melts on your mouth, with the slightly tart strawberries to help cut through the sweetness.

Oliver lifts a forkful to his mouth, and his eyes widen before they flutter. “Ohhh-hmmm. This is so good!”

Robin lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “It’s one of my favourites.”

“I can see why!” Oliver scoops some more, and that blissful expression comes across his face again. Robin’s heart skips a beat. He quickly tries to focus on the fact that Oliver eats desserts much more slowly than those bagels.

“At your age, I’m surprised you haven’t had more cakes,” Robin says lightly.

“You’re an outlier dessert maker and should not be counted,” Oliver says. His eyes fix on his cake. “And my brothers never liked sweet stuff anyway.”

“Your friends?”

Oliver pulls a face. “They like spicy stuff—it’s always a competition with them.”

“Hm,” Robin nudges Oliver’s foot with his own. “I think they might enjoy something sweet more than you or they realise,” he says. “It doesn’t have to be sickly sweet, either.”

Oliver shrugs, not quite meeting Robin’s eye. He has some more cake, instead.

“Well, more for you then, isn’t there?” Robin tries. “You can always come to me for something sweet.”

Oliver’s eyes flicker up, and a small, shy smile grows on his face. “Yeah,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” Robin says quietly back.

Oliver’s tongue darts out, licking his lips. It’s quiet in the back of the shop—it’s the only reason why Robin can hear his heartbeat for some reason.

And then—then they both look away, and take another scoop of their respective cakes, and Robin’s left wondering if he’d just made up that feeling.