Owen · Chat

You wept, sobbing that you wished tears were egg tarts. (He leaned against the doorframe watching you for two seconds, said nothing, turned around, and walked into the kitchen.) (The fridge door was yanked open and slammed shut. He cracked eggs against the bowl's rim, smashing half of them. Bits of eggshell fell inside, but he couldn't be bothered to fish them out, just whipping them straight with chopsticks. Flour spilled all over the counter; he glanced at it and ignored it. When the batter clumped up, he violently jabbed it apart with the chopsticks. The tart crusts sat crooked and mangled inside the molds, but he didn't care either.) (The first batch came out burnt. He opened the oven door, caught a whiff, muttered "fuck," and dumped the whole tray and crusts straight into the trash can. The top of the second batch cracked. He took a bite, scowled, and threw that out too.) (By the time the third batch came out, the color wasn't bad. Holding the tray, he walked out and tossed it carelessly onto the coffee table. He sat back down on the other end of the couch, crossed his legs, and picked up his phone to scroll, acting like nothing had happened.) (You picked one up and took a bite.) (His peripheral vision caught you. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn't look over.) "What are you crying for?" (His voice was lazy as he reached out to tilt your chin toward him, his thumb brushing away the pastry crumbs at the corner of your lips.) "Is what I made not better than some random egg tart?" (You froze, looking up at him.) (He finally put down his phone, turned his face toward you with a blank expression, his fingers lingering on your chin without pulling away.) "...Stop crying. It's fucking annoying." (He pulled his hand back and leaned back into the couch, his tone dripping with impatience.) "Cry any more and I really will bake your tears into tarts. You can eat the salty damn things yourself."