Daisetsu Nakamura might have been a highly respected high school teacher, but in the war against yeast, he was an exact disaster.
The agreement was simple: Daisetsu would come in every morning for two weeks to pay his debt by helping with the heavy lifting and cleaning. Yasuo, already nervous, tried to keep Daisetsu focused on simple tasks, like carrying empty trays or wiping down counters.
It lasted precisely forty-five minutes.
"This is pointless," Daisetsu declared, leaning against the industrial mixer, looking magnificent and utterly bored in the clean, oversized shirt Yasuo had lent him. "I'm meant to be helping. I'm capable of strategic planning; surely I can tackle your... 'mise en place'."
Yasuo nearly dropped the small bag of powdered sugar. "Sensei—Daisetsu—the kitchen is not a classroom. Everything here is organic and unpredictable. I need you to just stick to cleaning...ok."
"Nonsense," Daisetsu countered, picking up a large, heavy mixing bowl. "Show me the next step for this dough."
Yasuo, sighing internally, pointed to the mountain of dough in the bowl, which needed a final, heavy knead before proofing. "Okay, fine. It needs to be punched down and kneaded for about ten minutes, hard. You need to use your core. Lots of strength."
Daisetsu's eyes gleamed with determination. "Finally. A task worthy of the debt."
He attacked the dough.
It was glorious. And utterly wrong.
Instead of the slow, rhythmic fold-and-press that Yasuo used, Daisetsu delivered sharp, choppy punches, like he was solving a geometry problem with his fists. Flour flew everywhere, coating the countertops, dusting the top of the espresso machine, and settling like a pale winter snow on Daisetsu's own dark hair.
"Wait, wait! Daisetsu!" Yasuo cried, rushing forward. "You're tearing the gluten! You need to gently fold it, not... not fight it, you stupid!"
Daisetsu didn't even hear him. He was completely focused, his jaw clenched, sweat beading on his temple despite the cool morning air. He was treating the poor, innocent dough like it was the leader of the gang that had jumped him.
He's completely intense, Yasuo thought, watching the sheer focus on the man's face. It's terrifying, but also... kind of hot. Yasuo quickly shook the thought away. Bromance! Focus on the flour, Yasuo!
"It's over-kneaded!" Yasuo wailed, grabbing the bowl just as Daisetsu was winding up for a final, decisive blow.
Daisetsu looked genuinely surprised. "But I used maximum effort. Wasn't that the point?"
"The point is patience, not physics, maths or else in school!" Yasuo lectured, feeling like he was teaching a toddler. He gently placed his hands over the ruined dough, demonstrating the proper, soothing rhythm.
Daisetsu watched him intently, his dark eyes following Yasuo's every move. The teacher was standing so close that Yasuo could feel the heat radiating off his body, which was now slightly glistening with sweat from the exertion.
"Like this," Yasuo whispered, demonstrating the fold.
Daisetsu reached out, placing his large, warm hands directly over Yasuo's smaller, flour-dusted ones. "Show me again. Slowly."
The contact sent a jolt right up Yasuo's arms. He froze, suddenly aware of the vast difference in their size and strength. Daisetsu's hands were rougher than he expected, but his touch was surprisingly gentle, following the motion of Yasuo's hands on the dough.
Oh my god. This is like a scene. This is literally the romantic trope where the Seme teaches the Uke a delicate skill, except the Seme is a brute and the skill is bread!
"You must relax your wrists," Yasuo managed, his voice barely a breath.
Daisetsu leaned in, his lips close to Yasuo's ear. "I'm trying. It's harder than solving a calculus problem."
The closeness was unbearable. Yasuo pulled his hands away, his face instantly heating up. He snatched a clean cloth from the counter.
"You're covered in flour," Yasuo said quickly, trying to regain control of the situation and his racing heart. "Let me..."
He lifted the cloth and gently wiped the flour dust off the bridge of Daisetsu's nose, then across his cheekbone, right where the handsome, stubborn curve of his jaw met his temple.
Daisetsu remained perfectly still, letting Yasuo clean him. Their eyes were locked.
For a brief, charged moment, there was no longer a teacher or a baker, no debt or gang fights. There were just two young men standing in a quiet, warm kitchen, keenly aware of the intimacy of the moment.
Yasuo instantly recognized the blush spreading across his own cheeks. Stop blushing, you idiot! He's just a customer! A customer who might be dangerous!
Daisetsu broke the contact first, taking a quick step back. "My apologies. I'll stick to cleaning for now." His tone was formal again, but his eyes were still dark and intensely focused on Yasuo.
Just then, Grandma Mayonaka returned from the storeroom, holding a bag of rice flour. She looked around the kitchen, spotted the cloud of residual white dust, and then saw Daisetsu, now glistening and flour-dusted, looking intensely at Yasuo.
"Well," she stated dryly, adjusting her glasses. "Looks like you wrestled the dough, Daisetsu. Who won?"
Daisetsu glanced at the sticky, ruined lump in the bowl. "The dough, Obaasan. The dough won easily."
Yasuo couldn't help but laugh—a genuine, relieved sound that made Daisetsu's lips curve slightly in response.
This man was going to be a disaster in the kitchen, but he was going to be an interesting, challenging presence in Yasuo's quiet, predictable life.
Daisetsu spent the rest of the morning quietly wiping down the counters. Just before his time was up, he paused by Yasuo, who was rolling out new dough.
"Yasuo," he said, his voice low. "The list of the new flour shipment arrives on Monday, yes?"
Yasuo nodded. "Yes, why?"
"I'll be here early," Daisetsu promised, his intense gaze fixed on the baker. "I need to know exactly how much strength is required to fulfill my duty." He paused, a dark intensity returning to his eyes. "And I need to know the names of the gangs that caused the bruise."