Robin fulfills a rush of last-minute delivery orders. After the last set is done and passed over to the delivery clerk, Robin cleans the front area and closes the shop to the public. Blinds cover the main glass facade, and with the front lights turned off, he heads to the back kitchen to prepare and bake the things he needs for the next day.

The last batch of ice cream has just gone into the freezer to chill overnight, when Robin receives a message:

Oliver Campbell: Hey, are you still at the shop?

Robin Quan: Yeah?

Oliver Campbell: I’m outside.

Robin’s heart rate picks up. He quickly moves some used utensils into the sink and heads to the front of the shop. Oliver is standing right by the entrance, sunglasses on and hands in his jacket pockets.

“Hey,” Robin says, unlocking the door. “Come in.” He locks the door again once Oliver’s inside.

“Hey.” Oliver’s eyes are downcast as he follows Robin to the back kitchen. He slowly takes off his sunglasses and fiddles with them.

“Do you want me to make something warm? Chocolate milk?” Robin prompts.

“No, about...my friends,” Oliver says, grimacing. “Kyle really is a dick head. He thinks you’re straight, too—but I didn’t know if I could tell him otherwise. He’s gay as well.”

“You can tell him,” Robin says. He leans back against the counter on one side. “Are you talking about the Asian comment? I am Asian, you know.”

Robin takes the leap, because he doesn’t think Oliver is fishing for this information, and adds, “My parents are ethnically Chinese, but they grew up in Vietnam before coming here. Huge mess because we don’t really fit in the Chinese-Australians nor the Vietnamese-Australians.”

Oliver briefly grimaces in commiseration, but it’s clear his mind is still elsewhere. “It’s...well we don’t really get a lot of gay Asians down at the club.”

“I’m used to it,” Robin shrugs, ignoring the pang in his chest. “You know how gay cruising apps are. No fats, no femmes, no Asians. Or for the ones who think they’re smart, no rice, no curry.”

“...I know.”

“Hey, it just lets everyone else know they’re jerks,” Robin says.

Oliver snorts. “Most of them are.”

“Which is why I downloaded them, and soon deleted them after,” Robin admits. He glances across the kitchen and the various things still out. “Let me make you something. Matcha ice cream?”

Oliver’s eyes briefly light up—and then a look of guilt goes across his face. “I’m not that hungry.”

Robin quirks his lips. “Then we’ll share,” he says, pulling out a clean parfait glass.

“Well, if you insist…”

Robin inwardly smiles. “I do.” He sets the cream to whip and prepares the ingredients.

“I deleted those apps, too,” Oliver says as he watches. “I feel a bit old now, compared to those twenty-year-olds.” He laughs self-deprecatingly. “I sort of want to settle down. An apartment I can own, maybe, with this economy.”

“Agreed,” Robin says. “But finding someone to settle down with isn’t easy.”

Robin constructs the parfait by layering the glass with cubes of castella cake, sliced strawberries, sweet adzuki beans, matcha ice cream, and cream. The whole affair is topped with some warabi mochi, cornflakes, and one last scoop of matcha ice cream.

Completed, Robin places the parfait next to Oliver.

Oliver’s eyes are wide. “Seriously, you should have guys lining up when you make that.”

Something flutters in Robin’s stomach. “I do, they come for drinks and desserts, and not just guys. I hope you understand.”

Oliver rolls his eyes, nudging Robin in the arm.

Robin smirks back. “We both know your type is that baker on the British Bake Off.” He hides a smile when Oliver reddens. Robin retrieves two spoons and hands one to Oliver. “You first, Mister Campbell.”

“His smile is sparkly,” Oliver grumbles. He goes in for the ice cream first, and his lips curve up. “Matcha ice cream is good every time.”

“It’s also really good with strawberries.”

Oliver smiles. “Oh, yeah. Those cornflakes though?”

“You’ll understand when you try it,” Robin returns pointedly.

“...Well, it’s your turn now..”

Robin accedes, taking a bit of ice cream and mochi. The mochi is soft and chewy, against the melt-in-mouth of the ice cream. He nudges Oliver with his foot while his mouth is still full.

Oliver licks his lips, and goes in for another spoonful of ice cream and cream and cornflakes, and his eyes light in that way that is becoming so familiar to Robin.

They end up alternating between bites; of course, towards the end of it, Robin pointedly pushes the glass towards Oliver for him to finish. For all that Oliver protests, Robin eventually convinces him.

“I owe you another dinner,” Oliver says, as he licks the last of the ice cream.

“Your enjoyment is payment enough,” Robin says smoothly.

Oliver’s ears redden, but his lips go up. “Yeah? Then if I make you dinner, you would owe me.”

Robin laughs. “Evil, Oliver, evil. Then you can help wash the dishes.”

“Now that’s my line.”

But to Robin’s amusement, Oliver does help wash the dishes, and Robin puts him to some basic tasks in the kitchen as Oliver lingers, chatting about that particular gay baker—and about how there are gay bakers on the other seasons too.

“So that’s your type?” Robin teases. “Gay and bakes? I should have booked you a pastry masterclass for your birthday.”

“Gay and baking are two very good things,” Oliver protests. “Why not have a man who can do both?”

“Hmm.”

Doesn’t Robin fit those requirements? His breath catches for a moment as he stares at Oliver: the curls, the smile on his mouth. His chest aches when Oliver glances at him, and smiles.

But they’re just friends, aren’t they? And they’re just joking about Oliver’s type, he’s not actually attracted to gay bakers.

“Done,” Oliver announces. “Anything else you want me to do, boss?”

Robin blinks, and shakes his head with a smile. “Bedtime for both of us.” Robin does the final checks, turns off the lights and ushers Oliver out.

“See you later?” Oliver says.

“You know where to find me.”

Oliver’s smile lingers, and it lingers in Robin’s mind even when they go their separate ways.