Oliver is busy that week. He doesn’t even drop by to grab a coffee—it’s faster to just make it in his workplace’s kitchenette. He thinks his coworker, Mia, has been there—he’s seen her carrying a familiar looking box—but he’s not comfortable asking her to buy something for him.

He tries not to feel guilty when he walks past Robin’s shop every night, and only waving through the glass.

By Friday night, his work hasn’t ended, but it has eased, enough so that with a bit of extra work on Saturday, Oliver’s ready to relax and enjoy the Sunday morning with Robin.

When he arrives, he waves through the glass, and Robin comes out.

Nervousness wells in him, and Oliver tries to keep his glance of Robin cursory—from the blue shirt, to the tiny strawberry cufflinks.

“You’re early,” Robin says.

Oliver quickly looks away, facing the direction they’re walking. “Well, there was no point me hanging around home doing nothing,” he says casually.

“Or more time to enjoy dessert later,” Robin says.

“Right,” Oliver quickly agrees in relief. “Dessert.” He dares a glance at Robin. “How was your week?”

“The weather has been good, so business has been good,” he says. There’s a look in his eye, and a hint of smirk on his lips when he meets Oliver’s eyes. “I’ve been testing out some new recipes.”

“Have you?” Oliver says.

“There’s always some kind of food trend,” Robin says, “But not all of them are suitable to actually make—either because their taste is lacklustre, or the process is too time-consuming to work.”

“Do you really test all the food trends?”

“Can’t trust the internet,” Robin says, rolling his eyes. He starts talking about some of the totally failed food trends and hacks, especially those touted by certain famous channels.

“It’s amazing what good production can do,” Oliver muses. He knows all too well how strategic editing can change the feel of a song or video.

At the restaurant, they combinedly order the shakshuka and croque madame; and the tables are too small to really ask for extra plates.

“It’s weird,” Oliver admits, as he slices the croque madame in half. The runny egg yolk oozes across the bread and plate. “Me and my brothers never shared our food. It was a bit—whoever was faster got more. I mean—it wasn’t my mum’s fault.”

“Your dad?”

“He left when I started secondary. Don’t—it was good that he did, even if it meant my mum had to go at it alone. And whenever he comes back, it’s for my brothers, not me.” 

“It’s cultural, I imagine. I grew up with a dinner table filled with multiple different dishes,”  he says, propping his chin on his hand and eyes on Oliver.

Oliver shifts the plate closer to Robin, but Robin shakes his head.

“You can go first.”

“How about we eat together?” Oliver says.

“You drive a hard bargain,” Robin jokes.

On the count of three, they each bite into their half the croque madame. The bread is crispy, and the egg rich, and the cheese cheesy. Oliver loves the different textures, and it reminds him a lot of the grilled cheese sandwiches of his childhood.

Meanwhile, the shakshuka has a slight tartness in the tomato base, and spices that alleviate it up. They alternate between them, and Oliver feels as though each alternating bite is a new bite: just as good every single time. In between bites, Oliver sneaks Robin a look to ensure that he’s enjoying it too.

“Are you a good cook?” Robin asks.

“Well…” Oliver hedges.

Robin snorts, but he’s also smiling. “Instant noodles?”

“More like nutella on bread,” Oliver says sheepishly. “I usually get takeaway.”

“I do approve of nutella on bread,” Robin says, eyes crinkling. “But I find it hard to believe you can’t cook anything.”

Oliver pulls a face. “Wait til you taste my cooking—quote-unquote.”

Robin gives him an unreadable look, that looks scarily fond. “I look forward to it.”

“I—dinner? When do you even eat dinner?”

“After work, usually.”

“Late?”

“You get off work quite late too.”

Oliver stares, not quite believing what’s happening. “Are we planning a midnight dinner with me cooking? We haven’t even had brunch-dessert yet!”

Robin blinks. “I...suppose I am.” He looks away. “Let me get the bill.”

“No, I am!” Oliver flags down the waitstaff for their bill, and smugly hands them his credit card before Robin can protest.