𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫? - 𝐓𝐌𝐑 𝐀𝐔, 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐡𝐨

027 - cooking with Wastrid

Of course I've been assigned to cook a chocolate cake. With Astrid. If I'm being honest, all I really want right now is to check on Minho; after our conversation last night, I'm worried for him. But no . I have to cook a chocolate cake with the girl who spread my nudes around.

"You get the ingredients, I'll get the utensils."

Somehow, she listens, and goes to get the ingredients. When she returns, she gives me an undeserving glare.

"What?" I ask.

She shrugs. "Nothing. I'm just imagining what your face would look like if I stabbed it with this knife." She holds up one of the knives I got.

I let out an exaggerated gasp. "Excuse me?"

She chuckles at me. "You heard me."

"Girls!" The chaperone, who we've been told was called Chef Wyn, scolds us. "Stop messing around and cook!"

I groan and pick up the recipe card, scanning it for the first step. "We have to preheat the oven to 180°C bake," I announce.

Astrid nods, actually doing as I say.

"I'll grease the tin with butter, you say what the next step is." I grab the 20cm cake tin and begin to grease it.

"I'll mix the dry ingredients together," Astrid says, getting the flour, cocoa, baking powder, and sugar. She pours them into a bowl and starts mixing.

I finish greasing the tin and place it on the bench next to the recipe card. I do as it says, and I melt butter in a microwave for a minute.

"Which step are you doing?" Astrid asks. I turn to see her standing next to the recipe card.

"Melting the butter," I tell her. "You do the next step."

She nods. "Alright."

I don't get how she's being nice to me. It's surprising.

As she completes the next step on the recipe card, I wait for the butter, taking it out once finished microwaving. I bring the bowl of melted butter over to Astrid, and she instructs me to pour it into a bowl. I do as she tells me to. I take the wooden spoon I got out earlier and begin to mix everything in the bowl together.

Once I've mixed the butter in, I glance at Astrid, but she has a worried facial expression planted on her face.

"Astrid?" I cock my head. "What happened? What's wrong?"

"We put the butter in the wrong bowl," she says, staring into the abyss of our cooking station with horror. The realization hits me too, and I glance at the recipe card, then back at the bowl, my heart sinking.

(A/N: why are they so dramatic, wtf?)

"Great. Just great," I mutter under my breath, frustration bubbling up. I can feel Astrid's tension radiating from her, and it's only making things worse.

"Maybe we can salvage it," I suggest, trying to keep my voice steady. "We can just mix it in with the rest of the ingredients."

Astrid shoots me a sceptical look but doesn't argue. We both know we can't afford to waste any more time. I take a deep breath, determined to keep the peace.

I take the wooden spoon and scoop the mix into the bowl of dry ingredients. Once every last bit of mixture is in the second bowl, I begin stirring everything together with determination. Once everything is fully stirred, I look at the cake mixture, trying to decide if it looks okay or if not.

"I think it looks fine," Astrid says, shrugging. "Now, come on. We need to put the cake in the oven."

We pour the mixture into the tin I greased earlier, making sure every last bit is full. We then place the tray in the oven to bake for an hour.

"Good job," I say, wiping my forehead.

"I did most of the work," she mutters.

"No you didn't," I protest. "We evenly did the work together. "

She shakes her head. "No. I did all of the work. You probably got some skin from your stab wound in the mixture."

She did not.

I gasp. And not a fake gasp. "What the fuck? Don't talk about my wound like that!"

"How else should I talk about it?" Astrid questions. "Oh, congratulations, Whitley. You got stabbed."

"Just don't talk about it!"

You don't know what happened.

"Why not? Does it bring you trauma ?" The way she says the word trauma so mockingly makes my blood boil.

"Shut up," I snapped, annoyed.

"Make me."

"Okay." I punch her.

The impact shocks me more than it does her. She stumbles back, her eyes wide in disbelief. "You hit me?" This time, it's her turn to gasp. She holds a hand to her bright red cheek, probably aiming for the stinging to lessen.

"Yeah, I did," I say, feeling both guilt and adrenaline. I'm not sure what came over me, but her taunts push me to my limit.

She deserves it.

"Wow, Whitley, you're mature," she retorts, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Is that how you handle your problems? By throwing punches?"

"Better than taking nude photos of someone and sending them around the whole island," I shoot back, crossing my arms defiantly. "You have no idea what I've been through, and it's disgusting the way you're acting as though you do."

Her expression shifts, her anger becoming more visible. "Honestly, you should stop acting like a victim. Everyone else has their struggles as well."

"Don't act like you have it tough," I say, my heart racing. "You think you know me, but you don't know anything at all."

"Fine," she snaps. "Let's see how far your little punches can get you."

"It can get you a trip to the punishment cabin," Chef Wyn interrupts us, causing our gazes to fall off one another and flick to him. "For both of you. Follow me."

Oops.