The next morning, Dominic was already parked outside Sasha’s house before the sun had fully risen, a smoky gray light painting the quiet street in soft shadows.

A box of pastries from Ciel — all chocolate, obviously — sat untouched in the passenger seat. The scent of them had started to fill the car, sweet and rich. Dominic scowled at the box like it had personally offended him.

He couldn’t believe he was doing this.

He, Dominic Reed — known for blowing off parties, plans, people — was sitting in front of a boy’s house with baked goods like some kind of guilty boyfriend from a rom-com. The thought made him wince. He wasn’t soft. He wasn’t the guy who showed up with offerings.

But then… he remembered the faint glow he’d seen in Sasha’s bedroom window last night, barely visible through the curtains. A quiet little light, like a beacon.

And he imagined the way Sasha would have curled up on the couch, yawning into the throw pillow, waiting for him. 

But he never showed up. 

Dominic gritted his teeth.

He didn't even call. 

He was called in at the last minute to work and it was very important, he couldn't trade. 

At exactly 7:12AM, he stepped out of the car, box in hand, and walked up the porch with heavy footsteps. Each one sounded louder in the early morning stillness, and each one felt like it carried more weight than it should.

He rang the bell.

Nothing.

He waited.

Then — finally — the door creaked open, just enough to reveal a messy blur of soft morning Sasha.

The boy stood there in a massive robe that nearly swallowed his frame, tied in a knot that was barely holding. His hair looked like it had been through a blender, his bangs sticking out in every direction, cheeks flushed with leftover sleep.

Fluffy socks, bare legs, the faint scent of strawberry lotion wafting from him.

But there was no smile. No sparkle.

Sasha’s big brown eyes looked dull, flat.

Hollow.

Dominic’s throat felt dry.

“You’re up,” he said gruffly, holding out the box like a peace offering. “I brought—”

The door slammed in his face with a firm thud.

He stood there, frozen, stunned.

He blinked.

Then he rang the bell again.

This time, Sasha opened it just an inch, his sleepy glare barely peeking through the crack.

“I don’t want pastries,” he said, voice small but razor-sharp.

Dominic frowned. “You love pastries.”

“Not from you,” Sasha snapped.

He started to shut the door again, but Dominic’s reflexes kicked in. He wedged his hand in the frame and pushed slightly, keeping it from closing.

“Sasha,” he muttered, tone dropping an octave, a slight growl threading through the word, “don’t make me drag you out here.”

Sasha’s eyes widened in dramatic offense. His robe’s belt jostled as he stepped forward and stomped his fuzzy slippered foot with surprising force.

“Oh no,” he squeaked, voice rising, fiery now. “You do not get to talk to me like that mister! You’re… you’re a big mean bear, and I don’t like you!”

Dominic raised an eyebrow. The insult should’ve been ridiculous, laughable even — but it hit harder than expected. Something about Sasha’s puffed cheeks and glassy eyes made it sting.

“I waited for you all day!” Sasha went on, his little fists balled up at his sides. “In my bows! And I even made you brownies that you probably would’ve hated but I still made them! And you said— you said you wouldn’t bail!”

Dominic opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Sasha shoved at his chest, his tiny hands barely moving him, but the gesture felt heavier than it should.

“You lied!” Sasha yelled, his voice cracking mid-sentence. “You’re the grumpiest liar of all the liars in the whole lying universe! And I don’t want your stupid pastries now, so you can just—”

Dominic caught his wrist mid-poke, gripping it gently but firmly.

Sasha froze.

His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t pull away.

Dominic looked down at him, his jaw tightening.

“I…” His voice sounded hoarse. “I forgot. Work called me in. I didn’t mean to…”

But Sasha didn’t let him finish.

“Don’t care!” he snapped.

It was sharp. But there was something trembly underneath it. Not anger.

Hurt.

Dominic’s chest tightened.

Sasha yanked his wrist free and crossed his arms, hugging himself, turning his face away. The tip of his nose was red now. His bottom lip quivered ever so slightly.

“You made me sad, Bear,” he whispered.

The softness of it struck Dominic harder than any yelling had.

He swallowed.

A beat passed. Then another.

Finally, he crouched slightly, setting the box of pastries down carefully on the doorstep like it was an offering at a shrine.

He straightened again, eyes meeting Sasha’s.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “Make me suffer then, sugar.”

Sasha blinked.

His lashes fluttered. His arms slowly dropped.

Dominic’s gaze didn’t waver. There was no smirk, no charm, no sarcasm.

Just the truth.

“I deserve it.”

Sasha stared at him for a moment, thrown off-kilter by the rare honesty. His expression faltered, the shield of anger melting ever so slightly into something softer. But then, just as quickly, he spun around on his heel and stomped back inside.

But right before he disappeared, his voice floated over his shoulder — airy, sassy, and yet laced with that lingering ache:

“Good. I will.”

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

Dominic stared at it, hands shoved in his pockets.

And slowly… his lips curved.

It wasn’t a full smile. More like a reluctant smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth — something ancient, something long-forgotten trying to claw its way back up through all the walls he'd built.

Sasha was going to make him pay.

And maybe for the first time in his entire life…

Dominic was ready to.

Sasha watched Dominic as he walked to his car and when he finally drove off, he stepped back from the window and opened the door, he looked down at the fancy packaged box and quickly snatched it up. 

He was still pissed.

But that doesn't mean he was going to ignore the box in his hand. The box that contained very yummy pastries that Sasha would die for. 

Pastries from Ciel. Wrapped neatly, still warm.

Sasha stood by the door with it in his hands, scowling at nothing in particular. “Grumpy jerk,” he mumbled.

Then, softer, “But why’d he have to get them from Ciel?” then he scoffed, “He thinks he knows what he's doing. I'll show him.”

He stomped into the living room, still holding the box like it was fragile treasure. Dropping onto the soft, blue rug in the center of the room, he crossed his legs and opened it slowly.

The buttery scent hit him like a hug.

Golden layers, soft cream, a tiny powdered one with a cherry on top.

Sasha poked it. Then picked one up and held it to his mouth. He paused.

“These babies are innocent,” he muttered with a pout, biting into it. “They did nothing wrong.”

Another bite. Then another.

He spoke between chews, voice full of fake drama. “You don’t punish pastries just because their bringer’s an idiot. Especially not ones from Ciel. Ciel pastries are art. They deserve a home.”

He nodded to himself, picking another one. “And my belly is a good home.”

He licked cream off his finger, sighing like he was in love. “So soft... so flaky…”

By the time he looked down again, the box was empty.

He blinked. “Oops.”

Then he lay on his back, arms spread on the rug like a starfish.

Still a little pissed. Still a little sad.

But also full of sugar.

And that helped.

A bit.