Sugar, Secrets, and Something Else

By seventh period, Noah Harding felt the polish wearing off. 

He'd kept up the charm all day—every smile, every quip, every casual high-five had been executed with near-mechanical precision. But beneath it, something tugged at him. Not fatigue, exactly. Just... the need to be somewhere he didn't have to win. 

He had Study Hall last period—technically an elective labeled "Independent Research," which really meant "Do Homework Quietly While a Teacher Pretends Not to Scroll Instagram." He barely stayed five minutes. 

Instead, he ducked out, walked two floors down, and slipped through the side door of the Home Ec wing. 

The culinary classroom was mostly abandoned by this point in the year. A few underclassmen took the occasional cooking elective, but no one really used the room after hours. Except him. 

He'd found it in sophomore year—hiding out after a rough soccer practice, trying to kill time before his mom could pick him up. That day, he made a batch of brownies from a forgotten mix in the supply cabinet. Burned the first tray. Nailed the second. The smell had calmed him down more than anything else had that week. 

It became a habit. 

He stepped inside now, flipped the switch, and locked the door behind him. The soft hum of the overhead fan welcomed him like an old friend. He tied on an apron—one he kept stashed in the cabinet—and retrieved the cookies he'd prepped at home last night. 

Today's focus: frosting technique. 

He needed the repetition. The quiet. The complete absence of expectation. 

There was something therapeutic about it. The gentle pressure of the piping bag, the way the icing curled like waves, precise and soft. Here, there were no grades. No rivals. No expectations to exceed. Just sugar, butter, rhythm. 

He'd just finished the twelfth cookie when the moment shifted. 

A sound—barely there. Like the soft scuff of a shoe. 

Noah's shoulders stiffened. 

He looked up, and through the narrow glass panel in the door, he saw a flash of motion. Long dark hair. A backpack strap. A familiar silhouette. 

Isabelle? 

His first instinct was panic. Then something else flickered: curiosity. What had she seen? 

Did she realize what he was doing? 

Would she care? 

Probably. In that half-smirking, eyebrow-arching, I-know-a-secret sort of way that drove him crazy. 

He moved slowly toward the door, cracked it open, and peeked out into the hallway. 

She was still there. 

Frozen. Like she'd just been caught trespassing, not spying. 

"Chen?" he said, more surprised than annoyed. "What are you…?" 

"I wasn't following you," she blurted. "I was... I just left the library. Wrong turn." 

He raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. 

"That's a dead end." 

Her mouth opened. Closed. 

Finally, she crossed her arms and tilted her head. "Okay, fine. I saw you through the window. I didn't realize baking was one of your... extracurriculars." 

Noah rubbed the back of his neck, a blush threatening to creep up. "It's not. I mean it is. But it's not something I... advertise." 

She stepped forward, peering past him into the room. "Why not? It's surprisingly humanizing." 

He rolled his eyes but stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter. "You want one or are you just here to critique?" 

"Both." 

She walked in cautiously, like the air might bite. The moment she stepped over the threshold, Noah was struck by how different the space felt with her in it. Like the room itself straightened its spine. 

He handed her a cookie. 

She examined it like a scientist. "Not bad. Your piping technique's clean. Little excessive on the swirl. Compensating?" 

He laughed, relieved. "Wow. Didn't even wait till the second bite." 

She took a bite. Chewed. Paused. 

"It's good," she admitted. "Sweet, but not cloying. Vanilla?" 

"And almond extract." 

She raised an eyebrow. "Unexpected. I approve." 

For a moment, they just stood there-Isabelle leaning lightly against a prep counter, Noah perched on a stool near the tray, elbows on his knees. 

The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. Just... present. 

"You know," she said after a beat, "I always figured your hobbies included mirror-polishing trophies or... charming small children." 

"Only on weekends," he deadpanned. 

A small smile touched her lips. 

"Why baking?" she asked, voice softer now. 

He didn't answer right away. He stared at the next blank cookie, fingers fiddling with the piping bag. 

"It's quiet," he said finally. "Predictable. You follow the steps, you get something good. No... spotlight. No audience." 

He glanced up, expecting her trademark smirk, some quippy retort. 

But she just nodded. 

"I get that." 

And somehow, he knew she did. 

Another stretch of silence passed between them, different this time. Quieter, like something important had just shifted half a degree. 

"Don't worry," she said at last, brushing crumbs from her fingertips. "Your secret's safe with me." 

"I didn't say it was a secret." 

She arched a brow. "You locked the door." 

Touché. 

He leaned back and tossed a clean cloth at her. "You know, if you're going to crash my sacred space, you could at least help clean up." 

"Please. You should be thanking me for elevating the mood in here." 

Despite himself, he laughed. She didn't smile fully, but there was warmth in her expression now. Less steel, more shadowed curiosity. 

As she rinsed a mixing bowl, he noticed the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking. The way her lips pressed into a line when she was focused. The quiet that surrounded her wasn't cold. It was careful. 

Measured. 

He liked that. More than he should. 

"Chen?" he said suddenly. 

She glanced over. 

"Why were you really walking down this hallway?" 

She hesitated. Her fingers stilled on the sponge. 

"I needed somewhere quiet." 

That was all she said. But something in her voice low, sure, a little vulnerable told him the truth ran deeper. 

He nodded. 

"Next time," he said, "you don't have to lie about a wrong turn." 

Isabelle looked at him, eyes unreadable. 

"Next time, you don't have to lock the door." 

And then she was gone quiet footsteps, careful hands sliding her bag back over her shoulder. 

Noah stood in the middle of the room, frosting bag limp in his hand, heart inexplicably full. 

The cookies weren't the only thing warm now.