The contract arrived at dawn, wrapped in Sunyang-brand parchment paper and tied with a silk ribbon the exact shade of our brioche crust. I knew before opening it—Taehyun would be standing on our doorstep at precisely 7:00 AM.
He appeared right on time, his designer loafers crunching over the flour dusting our front steps. The crisp white apron he wore was laughably pristine, the Sunyang logo embroidered in gold thread over his heart.
"You're late," I said, flouring my hands.
His eyebrow twitched. "It's 6:58."
"Real bakers arrive at 4." I jerked my chin toward the industrial mixer already churning its first batch of dough. "That's lesson one."
Jeong's mist curled around the proofing cabinets, his silent laughter making the plastic sheeting ripple.
The First Test
Taehyun lasted seventeen minutes before his first mistake.
"Those are my croissants," I snapped as he reached for the tray of freshly shaped dough.
He froze, fingertips hovering over the spirals. "They're identical to the others."
"Look closer."
I watched his eyes track the subtle differences—my croissants had tighter coils, the ends tucked just slightly under. A trick Seong-ho had perfected in Paris.
Taehyun exhaled through his nose. "You marked them."
"Lesson two," I said, slapping a raw slab of butter into his palms. "Assume everything in this kitchen is a test."
The Boardroom in the Bakery
By mid-morning, the bakery was swarmed with customers and Sunyang executives in thousand-dollar suits pretending to enjoy rustic sourdough. Chairman Kang held court at our best table, his espresso untouched as he observed his grandson kneading dough with the intensity of a heart surgeon.
"Remarkable," he told Grandfather. "I haven't seen him struggle since advanced calculus at seven."
Dae-ho, perched on the flour sacks, was livestreaming the entire spectacle. "And here we witness the rare chaebol in its natural habitat," he whispered into his phone. "Notice the distressed pleats in its designer trousers—"
I chucked a wad of dough at his head.
The Secret Ingredient
Taehyun discovered the ledger at noon.
While restocking cinnamon, he found our battered notebook labeled Failed Experiments—page after page of Seong-ho's handwritten notes from the 1970s. His finger paused on one entry:
*July 12, 1973: Tried Claire's black sesame paste in kouign-amann. Dough resisted folding. Customers reported vivid dreams. Discontinue?*
"You never told me your uncle worked with my grandfather," he said, voice low.
I slammed the ledger shut. "Lesson three: Some recipes stay secret."
Jeong's mist darkened around the bookcase, his usual playful energy gone rigid.
The Accident
It happened during the afternoon rush.
Taehyun, maneuvering a tray of just-baked baguettes, collided with Mrs. Park's great-granddaughter. The loaf she'd purchased tumbled to the floor—our last vanilla-miso brioche.
The entire bakery froze.
Before I could speak, Taehyun knelt. "My fault entirely." He pulled a velvet box from his blazer pocket—Sunyang's infamous "apology caviar," worth more than our weekly flour order. "With our compliments."
The old woman's eyes gleamed as she accepted it. "You're learning, boy."
Jeong's mist flickered toward Taehyun, momentarily translucent with surprise.
The Midnight Lesson
I found him still in the kitchen at 1:00 AM, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with flour and frustration. Seventy-three croissant attempts lay between us, each slightly better than the last.
"Your problem is precision," I said, nudging his latest effort. "You're treating dough like a spreadsheet."
Taehyun wiped his hands on his ruined apron. "It is chemistry."
"Wrong." I grabbed his wrist, pressing his palm flat against the next raw dough portion. "It's alive. Feel that?"
His breath hitched as the yeast bubbled against his skin.
For the first time all day, he wasn't Kang Taehyun, Sunyang heir. He was just a boy with flour in his hair and wonder in his eyes.
Jeong's mist curled around our joined hands, warm as fresh milk.
The Revelation
Dawn was bleeding through the windows when we finally stopped. Taehyun's seventy-fourth croissant—while imperfect—had the right rhythm.
"You're staying," I realized aloud. "Not just today. The contract..."
"Six months minimum." He flexed his stiff fingers. "Board insisted."
I stared at the counter littered with our failures. Six months of this. Six months of him.
Jeong's mist formed a fox-like grin over the sink.
Outside, the first delivery trucks rumbled toward Seoul's waking streets. Somewhere among them, Moon & Son's replacements would be plotting. But here, in this flour-dusted kitchen, a new alliance was rising.
And it smelled like butter and possibility.