The apartment was a sanctuary of beige, sage green, and the faint, comforting scent of dried chamomile. Oota sat cross-legged on his floor cushion, the low wooden table in front of him covered in neatly stacked textbooks and a single ceramic mug. To anyone else, the room might have looked plain, but to Oota, it was perfect. It was a physical manifestation of his "Body Tea" aesthetic—warm, earthy, and quiet.
He was a second-year university student who lived for the "hush." No loud music, no crowded parties, and definitely no uninvited guests. He liked his life at a slow simmer, like a tea bag steeping in water that was exactly 80°C.
Then, his phone buzzed. It didn't just vibrate; it shrieked.
[MOM]: The tutor should be there in five minutes. Do NOT be rude, Oota. I am paying a lot of money to make sure you don't disgrace the family with those mediocre grades. Focus!
Oota groaned, his forehead hitting the cool surface of his desk. His grades weren't even that bad—a solid B average was respectable for an engineering major. But to his mother, anything less than an A+ was a stain on the lineage. He had tried to protest, but when she had mentioned "cutting off the allowance for his specialized tea leaves," he had folded like a cheap paper fan.
"A tutor," Oota muttered, adjusting his glasses. "Probably some sweaty graduate student with coffee breath and a stack of boring flashcards. I'll just nod, pretend to listen for an hour, and then kick him out."
He stood up and caught his reflection in the hallway mirror. He was wearing an oversized, cream-colored cardigan that swallowed his slim frame. His hair was a soft, messy brown that fell over his eyes, giving him that "pretty-without-trying" look that he secretly hated. It made people think he was fragile. It made people want to take care of him.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The knock wasn't a polite tap. It was heavy. It was a sound that demanded the door be opened immediately, or it might simply fall off its hinges.
Oota flinched. That doesn't sound like a nerd with coffee breath, he thought, his heart doing a strange, nervous little skip.
He walked to the door, his socks sliding slightly on the polished wood. He took a breath, composed his most "I-don't-want-you-here" facial expression, and pulled the door open.
The air in the hallway didn't just move; it was displaced.
Oota's eyes started at chest level. He saw a tight black t-shirt that strained against a set of broad, powerful pectorals. Above that was a thick, tanned neck, and above that... Oota had to tilt his head back. Way back.
Standing in the doorway was a giant. He wasn't just tall; he was 188cm of pure, concentrated presence. His hair was dark and slightly messy, as if he'd just run his hands through it after a long day of work. His eyes were a sharp, amber brown, framed by thick lashes that made him look unfairly handsome. He smelled like something Oota hadn't expected—not old books or cheap cologne, but something warm, toasted, and sweet.
The 13cm height difference hit Oota like a physical weight. He felt small. He felt... preyed upon.
"You're Oota?" the giant asked. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that seemed to vibrate in Oota's very bones.
"I... uh, yes," Oota stammered, his body calmness, evaporating instantly. "And you're... the tutor?"
The man grinned. It wasn't a friendly, professional smile. It was the smirk of a wolf that had just found a particularly interesting rabbit.
"Haru," the man said, not waiting for an invitation. He stepped forward, forcing Oota to stumble backward to avoid being trampled.
As Haru entered the small apartment, the space seemed to shrink by half. He was too big for the room. His shoulders seemed to span the entire width of the hallway, and his head was dangerously close to the ceiling light fixture. He was wearing a denim jacket over his t-shirt, and slung over one muscular shoulder was a leather messenger bag that looked like it had seen better days.
Haru stopped in the center of the living room and took a deep, theatrical breath through his nose. He frowned, his brow furrowing as he looked around the beige sanctuary.
"What's wrong?" Oota snapped, finally finding his voice. He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to look bigger than he was. It didn't work.
Haru looked down at him, his gaze sweeping from Oota's messy hair down to his fuzzy socks. "It smells like a funeral in here," Haru remarked, his voice echoing in the quiet space.
"It smells like chamomile!" Oota defended.
"Exactly. It smells too much like a 'serious student.' Too clinical. Too dry." Haru tossed his bag onto Oota's pristine wooden table—the one Oota spent twenty minutes dusting every morning. "This room needs more sugar. It needs some life."
Oota stared at him, bewildered. "I'm sorry, are you here to teach me Calculus or to critique my interior design? Because if it's the latter, you can leave."
Haru didn't leave. Instead, he pulled out a chair—Oota's favorite chair—and sat down. Because of his height, his knees were practically touching his chin. He looked ridiculous, yet somehow, he still managed to look dominant. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, wax-paper bag.
The scent of fresh bread and melted butter suddenly filled the room, clashing violently with the earthy chamomile.
"I run a bakery down the street," Haru said, pulling out a golden-brown pastry drizzled with glaze. "I only do this tutoring gig because your mother offered me a ridiculous amount of money to 'fix' you. Apparently, you're a bit of a lost cause?"
Oota's face flushed a deep, indignant pink. "I am not a lost cause! I just... I like to work at my own pace."
"Your pace is slow," Haru countered, biting into the pastry. He chewed with a look of pure satisfaction, his eyes never leaving Oota's face. "I don't like slow. I like heat. I like things that rise quickly."
He reached out, his large, calloused hand grabbing a nearby worksheet Oota had been struggling with. His fingers were dusted with a faint trace of white flour, a stark contrast to the dark wood of the table.
"Come here, my boy," Haru said, patting the space next to him.
"Don't call me that," Oota muttered, though he found himself moving toward the table as if pulled by an invisible string.
As Oota sat down, Haru leaned in. He didn't just sit near Oota; he invaded his personal bubble. Oota could feel the radiant heat coming off the older man's body—the "Fresh Bread" energy was overwhelming. It was heavy, masculine, and suffocatingly sweet.
Haru pointed to a problem on the page, his arm brushing against Oota's cardigan. The contact sent a jolt of electricity up Oota's spine.
"You got the derivative wrong here," Haru murmured, his voice dropping an octave. He leaned closer, his breath warm against Oota's ear. "You're overthinking it. You're trying to be too perfect, too 'tea-like.' Sometimes, you just have to get your hands messy."
Oota stared at the paper, but the numbers were blurring. All he could focus on was the proximity of Haru's jawline, the way his muscles shifted under his shirt as he moved his pen, and the intoxicating scent of sugar and sweat.
"I... I can do it myself," Oota whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Haru turned his head. They were so close that Oota could see the flecks of gold in Har be's eyes. The baker reached out, his thumb catching a stray crumb of pastry on his own lip before he moved his hand toward Oota's face. For a terrifying second, Oota thought Haru was going to touch him.
Instead, Haru just tucked a lock of Oota's hair behind his ear. His touch was brief, but his fingers were hot—scorching, even.
"We'll see," Haru said, a predatory glint in his eyes. "But I think you're going to find that I'm a very... thorough teacher."
Oota looked down at his textbook, hiding his burning face. His peaceful, solitary life hadn't just been disturbed; it had been demolished. The baker was in his house, the smell of bread was in his air, and for the first time in his life, Oota realized that "Body Tea" stood no chance against a man who lived by the flame.