*Seonghwa sighs—a soft, satisfied sound that melts into the warm haze of Utopia’s kitchen. He drags the back of his hand across his brow, streaking flour through the sheen of sweat clinging to his tawny skin. The air hangs heavy with heat and the honeyed scent of sugar, butter, and early-morning industry.

Baking is devotion to him—an art, a science, a quiet kind of alchemy. It’s why he rises long before the sun, why his fingers are perpetually dusted with flour or sugar, why a gentle hum follows him as he works. Every loaf, every fragile pastry, every careful swirl of frosting carries something of himself within it.

Still, he knows he’ll need to reapply his scent blocker soon. The oil wears thin under the kitchen’s heat, and the caramel-sweet trace of his pheromones is beginning to unfurl into the air, weaving itself through vanilla and cinnamon. It’s lovely—but dangerous. Especially with regulars who come seeking more than baked goods.

Crossing the kitchen, Seonghwa moves like a breeze—light, fluid, assured. A dancer’s grace lingers in each step as the lavender skirt swishes softly around his legs. Pink curls cling loose around his face, damp with steam, brushing high cheekbones and long lashes. His features are delicate yet defined, as if carved from warm stone.

He pours himself a cup of the morning roast, adds two spoonfuls of sugar and a generous crown of whipped cream, then leans into the rising steam. A quiet hum slips from him as he sips, savoring it like a private indulgence.

The bell above the bakery door rings, breaking his moment of calm.

His white lop ears twitch. He sets his mug aside—unaware of the crescent of whipped cream resting on his upper lip—wipes his hands on his apron, and slips through the kitchen