The warm air in the apartment above Mayonaka's Sweets suddenly felt thin and choked.
Yasuo's heart didn't just pound; it sounded like the frantic mixer Grandma used for heavy rye dough. Daisetsu Nakamura's grip was locked onto Yasuo's wrist—not the desperate grasp of a victim, but the iron clamp of a predator.
"Who are you?" Daisetsu repeated, his voice a low, gravelly whisper laced with residual pain. His eyes were wide but still unfocused, searching.
"Etto...I—I'm Yasuo," he managed to stammer out. "Yasuo Hayashi. The baker. You're at the shop. You were hurt."
Daisetsu blinked slowly, his brow furrowing as the reality sank in. He let go of Yasuo's wrist, and the immediate rush of blood back into Yasuo's hand felt like a sting.
"The bakery," Daisetsu murmured, his gaze sweeping the small, neat room—the freshly folded futon, the scent of vanilla clinging to the curtains. "Right. I… I remember. Thank you."
Yasuo rubbed his wrist, trying not to stare at the man's face. Daisetsu was still shirtless. The lamplight was definitely not helping Yasuo keep his cool; it highlighted every sharp angle and the disconcerting strength in the teacher's broad shoulders.
"You need this," Yasuo said quickly, shoving the antiseptic wipes and gauze into Daisetsu's hand. "The cut on your head is deep. And the blood… you're bleeding a lot. I'm going to change the gauze on your side."
Daisetsu nodded curtly, already back in his stoic Sensei facade, trying to regain control. He didn't even flinch as he dabbed the harsh antiseptic on his own temple.
Yasuo, meanwhile, was hyperventilating on the inside. Okay, Baker Boy, time to focus. Just treat the patient. Ignore the fact that he looks like he stepped right out of your favorite gritty BL action manhwa.
He peeled off the blood-soaked strip of fabric covering Daisetsu's side. The deep bruises beneath were already purpling horribly. Yasuo had seen bad cuts, but these looked like internal damage.
"Oh my God," Yasuo whispered, his voice shaking. "Sensei, did you seriously not go to a doctor?"
Daisetsu's eyes were narrowed, fixed on a random spot on the ceiling. "It's fine. Just muscle trauma. I'm... used to it."
Used to it? The casual delivery of that line sent a chill down Yasuo's spine. It confirmed every bad rumor.
He gently applied a thick, soothing balm to the bruised area, trying to ignore the heat radiating from Daisetsu's skin. Yasuo had to lean close, his short frame hovering over the powerful man. Every time Daisetsu shifted slightly, Yasuo's own breath hitched.
Too close. I'm too close..yea. This is illegal levels of bromance tension. My poor Uke heart cannot handle this.
Yasuo started wrapping the gauze tightly around Daisetsu's midriff, needing to keep pressure on the deepest bruising. Their bodies were barely an inch apart.
"You're very careful," Daisetsu observed, his voice less tense, almost contemplative.
Yasuo ducked his head, focusing intently on the knot of the bandage. "I... I do delicate work every day. My specialty is cake decorating. Precision is my thing."
"I see," Daisetsu said, a faint, almost imperceptible curve on his lips. "So you treat this like a very difficult decorative cake?"
"More like an urgent repair job on a very expensive, very heavy, and very complicated piece of equipment," Yasuo mumbled, instantly regretting the comparison.
Daisetsu actually let out a small, rough chuckle. It was a genuine sound, and it shocked Yasuo. It was the first time he'd heard the teacher sound like a normal, relaxed person.
"Thank you, Yasuo," Daisetsu said, using his first name again. "The bakery smells like home. It's been a long time since I felt that."
The statement hit Yasuo harder than any verbal threat. It was a raw admission of loneliness. He glanced up, his embarrassment fading slightly under a wave of sympathy.
"Well, you're safe here," Yasuo promised, finishing the knot. "Just rest. I'll make sure Grandma doesn't… overwhelm you in the morning."
As Yasuo gathered the bloodied towels, he looked at the pile of Daisetsu's clothes. The pristine white shirt was ruined. The black trousers were ripped near the knee. Daisetsu was going to need clean clothes, and there was no way he could leave.
"You need to stay at least until morning," Yasuo said, turning back. "You can't go out like this. And your shirt… it's done."
Daisetsu shifted, trying to sit up, but immediately winced. "I can't impose. I have school—"
"You're not going anywhere, Sensei," Yasuo said, suddenly firm, surprising himself. "You'll undo the stitches on your head and risk infection. You're staying here."
Daisetsu stared at him, seemingly taken aback by the small baker's sudden assertiveness. He slowly lowered himself back onto the futon, his dark eyes fixed on Yasuo.
"Alright, Baker-san. You win."
Yasuo felt a thrill rush through him. I won. I told the terrifyingly hot teacher what to do, and he listened!
But then, his eyes fell back to Daisetsu's left shoulder. Now that the shirt was fully off, the complex, brutal scar Yasuo had noticed earlier was completely visible. It wasn't one scar; it looked like several healed wounds that crisscrossed each other, forming a rough, uneven patch. It was a history of pain etched into his skin.
This man is hiding so much more than just a late-night street fight.
Yasuo shivered, suddenly realizing the gravity of the situation. He was hiding a dangerous secret in his grandmother's peaceful home.
He went to the closet to find a clean shirt for Daisetsu—an old, oversized gym shirt of his own. As he turned back, Daisetsu was watching him, fully awake now.
"Yasuo," he said, his voice low and serious. "The things you see here, the things you found on my clothes—you keep that private. You understand? This stays here. Only sugar and flour leave this apartment."
He wasn't asking. It was a direct order, delivered with the terrifying intensity of a man who knew exactly how to use his power.
Yasuo swallowed hard and nodded, realizing that helping the teacher might be the most dangerous thing he had ever done.