Macarons
It was raining in Paris that day. The windows in the room rattled at irregular intervals, growing closer together. Nothing could be seen outside anymore. The raindrops splattered against the glass, and just as they started to trickle down, another would take its place.
Vi felt good. The room was warm, and the lesson was going wonderfully. In her hands, a huge mug of hot chocolate burned her palms in the most delightful way. Seeing her arrive completely drenched from the downpour, Caitlyn had insisted on wrapping her up in a huge blanket and had even offered her slippers. After a few polite refusals, Vi had finally given in—and she had no regrets. She felt like a hibernating bear.
Perched on the armrest of the couch, she watched Caitlyn pull her fourth batch of macaron shells out of the oven, hope shining in her eyes.
“This time, I think the macarons are good!”
Vi wasn’t sure what was more adorable: the way Caitlyn absolutely butchered the word “macarons” with her accent, the pastel blue apron tied around her slim waist, or the way her face scrunched up in concentration when she baked. Definitely her face.
They had decided to make the dessert in preparation for Monday’s class. By redoing the recipe over and over again today, Caitlyn hoped to avoid a disaster in front of her teacher. The first batch had been a total failure. Overwhelmed by stress, Caitlyn had overworked her macaron batter. When she piped it onto the tray, the mixture spread out, forming small, irregular puddles. So Vi had repeated the same strategy as the day before: getting her overly anxious partner to talk.
The next batches got closer to the desired result but were still imperfect—the second batch looked like small, cracked rocks, and the third one lacked the characteristic macaron "feet."
Setting the tray on the marble island, Caitlyn inspected her creation with a critical eye.
“I think they’re a bit flat… and maybe not baked enough?”
Extracting herself from her nest of blankets, Vi approached. “You kidding? They’re perfect. Don’t worry about the baking, just let them cool on the tray, and they’ll be just right.”
She picked up one of the still-warm shells and popped it into her mouth, under Caitlyn’s outraged gaze.
“What? No, stop! I need those! I still have to add the filling.” She pretended to smack Vi with her spatula, though her smile betrayed her fake anger.
“Hey! That one would’ve been lonely anyway, you had an odd number.”
“Greedy little - No! Hands off! Go eat the rejects.”
“Yes, cheffe ! Right away, cheffe !” Vi grinned mischievously, shoving the failed macaron shells into her mouth, cheeks full.
She looks like a hamster, that’s adorable, Caitlyn thought as she watched Vi devour the pile of biscuits. Her eyes drifted to Vi’s neck, where black inked lines disappeared down... how far exactly? She quickly turned to fetch the bowl of cream from the fridge, as if that would help her regain composure.
Since their argument the day before, the atmosphere between them had become significantly lighter. Vi liked watching Caitlyn bake and talking to her. Caitlyn liked baking with Vi and talking to her.
They were discovering each other. Their favorite shows -Fleabag and Hercule Poirot -; their sports -running and weightlifting-; where they had grown up -London and Nantes-. Details they eagerly memorized, hungry to learn more about one another.
Neither dared to ask more personal questions. They were afraid of overstepping, of seeming intrusive—unaware that both were dying to dig deeper.
Caitlyn placed the bowl under the stand mixer and lowered the whisk attachment.
“Alright, do you remember what I told you?” Vi asked, licking the sticky crumbs off her fingers. “You whip the ganache really slowly—don’t go too fast. The cream splits easily.”
Caitlyn nodded seriously, turned on the machine, and stared at the cream with intense focus. She increased the speed under Vi’s approving nod, then grabbed a dish towel and started twisting it nervously.
“You can stop now, I think,” Vi said after a moment, her voice just loud enough to be heard over the noise.
Panicked, Caitlyn lifted the whisk without turning off the mixer first, sending cream flying everywhere.
“I—I’m so sorry!” She stood frozen for a moment before Vi reacted faster, switching off the machine with practiced ease.
Vi turned to Caitlyn, who looked utterly defeated, her face splattered with cream—and burst out laughing. Caitlyn quickly followed, apologizing between gasps.
“No worries, Cupcake,” Vi said, still chuckling, her breathing slowing down. She wiped a bit of cream from her partner's cheek with her fingers and brought it to her lips. The touch between them was electric.
“Delicious.”
“Cupcake?” was all Caitlyn could manage.
“Yeah.” Vi’s voice took on a playful tone. “You’re… sweet, like a cupcake.”
Caitlyn remained speechless, lips slightly parted, her brain short-circuiting. Vi started to panic, wondering if she’d gone too far, when Caitlyn finally replied:
“Sweet? Usually, it’s my partners who ask me to be sweeter.”
This time, it was Vi’s turn to blush violently. The innuendo was more than clear—very explicit, actually. She ran a nervous hand through her hair. Flirting? That was easy. Being caught off guard by a woman who was basically the embodiment of her fantasies? Not so much.
“Anyway… uh, yeah. Just pipe the filling, and let’s finish this.”
“Of course, cheffe,” Caitlyn teased.
The macarons were in the fridge—perfect. The countertop was clean. Caitlyn surveyed her kitchen with satisfaction.
She glanced at the clock: almost 8 p.m.
“I didn’t realize how late it was, I’m sorry. Want me to walk you home?”
“Do I look like a lady in distress?” Vi smirked as she slipped on her jacket, reluctantly abandoning the cozy blanket.
“You look like a lady, period. And anyway, my gym is far, in the same direction as your place, I think. Plus, I can grab that meat you wanted.”
Vi blinked. She had completely forgotten about their little barter—meat in exchange for lessons.
“Oh. Right.”
“So? I walk you home, and it’s raining, you’ll be better under an umbrella.”
“Okay, Cupcake, but text me when you get back. My brain needs confirmation that you made it home safe.”
“You don’t think I can defend myself?”
They kept up their playful banter all the way to the supermarket. The rain was relentless, and Vi had insisted on holding the umbrella. Being shorter than Caitlyn, she had to stretch her arm up high. A cramp was already forming in her shoulder, but she would rather die than admit it. Vi was like that, devoted, but mostly stubborn enough to make her own life harder.
Inside the store, the bright, slightly yellowish fluorescent lights were almost aggressive after the dark, rainy streets. The conveyor belts carried bottles lazily—beer and stronger liquor—a clear sign that it was, indeed, Saturday night.
Vi crouched slightly, studying the meat section with deep concentration before turning to Caitlyn, suddenly hesitant.
“Are you sure I can pick whatever I want? Honestly, you know, I don’t mind giving you lessons for free.”
“No. A deal’s a deal. Pick whatever you want, really.”
There was no pity or charity in her voice. Reassured, Vi turned back to the shelves.
After a long, careful deliberation, Vi lit up and proudly held up a one-kilo pack of chicken breasts like it was the best birthday present ever.
“This, if you’re okay with it, Cupcake.”
Of course, Caitlyn was okay with it. Who could resist those puppy-dog gray eyes?
After a quick stop at the self-checkouts, they left the store, Vi clutching the package tightly against her.
"You know, even if it gets wet, your chicken won’t suffer. It’s dead and wrapped in plastic."
"You don’t get it, Cupcake. This is between me and the chicken now."
Caitlyn burst out laughing, a melodic, uninhibited sound that made Vi smile as she opened the umbrella.
"Let me shield us from this dreadful rain while you protect your pet."
Vi wanted to argue, but Caitlyn seemed just as stubborn as she was—maybe even as much as her sister—which wasn’t necessarily a good sign.
The walk to Vi’s place felt like it passed in a flash, their conversation flowing effortlessly. Forgotten were the dirty streets, the sticky metro poles, the constant honking of cars, and the ever-present Parisian rats. All that mattered was Caitlyn and the little gap between her front teeth when she smiled.
They reached Vi’s building, tucked away in a narrow, dimly lit street just off a too-noisy boulevard. Vi wished she could stretch out the moment, but a creeping sense of shame tightened around her stomach. She shouldn’t have let Caitlyn walk her home, she didn’t belong here. She didn’t fit in with the run-down surroundings, and Vi shouldn’t have pulled her out of her Haussmannian bubble and brought her into this.
Caitlyn examined the battered red door, covered in graffiti, its paint peeling in places to reveal water-swollen wood beneath.
Shame coiled around Vi’s chest. Any second now, she expected to see disdain in Caitlyn’s eyes, judgment, and-
"Can you read what it says?"
"Huh?" Vi blinked, caught off guard.
"The graffiti." Caitlyn pointed at it with a slender finger. "I really need to improve my French; all of this just looks like gibberish to me. Anyway, I’ll let you get some rest. Thanks again for the lesson, Vi. See you soon?"
Relief washed over her. Everything was fine. Caitlyn might be from another world, but she wasn’t looking down on hers. Vi wanted to believe that.
"Text me when you get home, okay? We can do another lesson whenever you want. See you, Cupcake."
They parted ways with smiles full of unspoken promises.
From "CuteChicken"
Made it home okay??
From "🧁"
Just now! Thanks again for the lesson, sleep well!
From "CuteChicken"
Sleep well Cupcake