11:00 AM — Computer Science Class
Mr. Robertson stood at the front of the room, lecturing on programming, systems analysis, and database administration. Half the class looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. The other six of us—those who actually cared about our education—sat upright, taking notes. I was there for extra credit.
One day I want to open a bakery in Bangkok.
My father and I moved to America when I was seven. I don't remember much about my home country, except the smell of my mother's buttery croissants in the morning with flaky and golden, served with fresh strawberries, crispy bacon, and eggs. Our white wooden floors in the kitchen with mismatched bowls, plates and a white blanket.
She ran a small bakery in Chiang Mai.
and my father recently returned to help her run it again.
Food, sweets, drinks brings people together.
And now that I'm 28, I'm ready to go back. I love America, but lately, I've been homesick.
The classroom door creaked open. Jericho walked in.
He wore a black turtleneck tucked into black dress pants, paired with black-and-white sneakers. His skin was a smooth chestnut, his dark brown eyes framed by matte silver rectangular glasses. A black-and-white backpack hung from his shoulder. His face was striking—like something out of a fairytale. Prince Charming,
He carried himself with quiet confidence, always focused, always composed. From what I'd heard, he had no friends, lived alone, and worked part-time at Best Buy. Every girl on campus had a crush on him. He turned them all down.
Jericho took the seat next to me, sat his bag on the desk, and powered up his computer. While it booted, he pulled out a lemon-yellow 300-page notebook, black and light blue pens, white-out, a pack of multicolored highlighters, a bottle of 365 Naturally Alkaline Spring Water, and a small pack of Reese's Zero Sugar Peanut Butter Cups.
He looked up at Mr. Robertson, who gave him a nod of welcome. Jericho nodded back. He was every professor's favorite student—or at least, that's what I'd gathered from the three classes we shared.
I tried not to stare, but his side profile was mesmerizing. As he began typing, I pretended to search something random on Bing.
I took one glanced then another glanced at him—this time, he caught me.
"You like what you see?" he asked, eyes locked on mine.
"Uh… no, no. I was just looking at your notebook. The color reminded me of lemon cake," I stammered.
"Oh, really?" he replied, voice laced with sarcasm.
I turned quickly to my monitor, cheeks burning. His tone left me uneasy.
"I'm sorry for staring," I mumbled, eyes glued to the screen.
"Don't worry about it," he said, already typing again.
My heart pounded. His voice was deep, smooth, and elegant. Then—my stomach growled. Loudly. The room was silent.
It growled again, even louder. I clutched my stomach, mortified, as a few students turned to look.
Without a word, Jericho slid a large croissant wrapped in plastic and a small carton of 2% milk across the table to me.
"Don't let Mr. Robertson see," he whispered.
I ducked behind my monitor, carefully unwrapping the croissant. I took four bites. It was unlike anything I'd ever tasted—sweet, buttery, with a hint of vanilla filling. I sat up straight, opened the milk, and chugged it.
"Thanom, no food in class. That's rule number one," Mr. Robertson said, his voice firm.
I froze. "I'm sorry," I blurted. Laughter rippled through the room.
Jericho glanced at me, unreadable.
When class ended, Jericho was the first to leave. The others followed. Mr. Robertson approached my desk.
"I might have to deduct two points from your assignment, Thanom," he said.
"I didn't eat anything this morning. My stomach was growling, and I didn't want to disrupt the class. I should've stepped out. I know the rules. It won't happen again," I said, voice tight with worry.
Mr. Robertson nodded and returned to his desk.
As I packed up, I noticed a pair of white galaxy earbuds near the mouse where Jerichos sat at.
I grabbed them and rushed into the hallway, scanning left and right.
"I've got ten minutes until my next class," I muttered. "Which class does he have next?"
Thanom adjusted the strap of his backpack as he stepped out of the computer science building. The October air in Saint Louis was crisp, brushing against his cheeks like a reminder to keep moving. He glanced at his phone—ten minutes until his next class. Just enough time to stop by the campus gift shop.
Saint Louis University had become his second home over the past few years. Nestled in the heart of Midtown, the campus buzzed with students from all walks of life. Thanom had chosen SLU for its strong business and culinary programs, hoping to blend entrepreneurship with his passion for baking. He was determined to make his dream bakery in Thailand a reality—one croissant at a time.
The gift shop was tucked beside the student center, a cozy nook filled with university merch, snacks, and last-minute school supplies. Thanom pushed open the glass door, the bell chiming softly overhead.
And there he was.
Jericho stood near the back, examining a shelf of insulated water bottles. His matte silver glasses caught the light, and his black turtleneck looked freshly pressed. Thanom hesitated, then walked toward him, clutching the white Galaxy earbuds he'd found earlier.
"Hey," Thanom said, voice low.
Jericho turned, his gaze steady. "Thanom, right?"
"Yeah. You left these in class." Thanom held out the earbuds.
Jericho took them, nodding. "Thanks. I didn't even notice."
"No problem," Thanom replied, trying not to sound too eager. " We have class together, I usually sit in the front in business and art class.
Jericho gave a half-smile. "It's the best seat. Less distractions."
Thanom chuckled. "Guess I'm one of the distractions."
Jericho's eyes flicked up. "Only when your stomach growls."
They both laughed—soft, genuine. Thanom felt the tension in his shoulders ease.
"Well, I've got science next," Jericho said, slipping the earbuds into his backpack.
"Same. Then business. Then culinary," Thanom replied.
"Triple threat," Jericho said. "Good luck surviving."
Thanom smiled. "You too."
They parted ways at the door, and Thanom headed toward the science building, feeling oddly lighter.
Science Class — 12:00 PM
Thanom sat in the second row, scribbling notes on cellular respiration. The lecture was dense, and the fluorescent lights overhead made his eyes ache. He tried to focus, but his mind kept drifting—to Thailand, to croissants, to Jericho's voice.
By the time class ended, his notebook was filled with diagrams and half-legible thoughts. He packed up quickly, grabbing a granola bar from his bag as he walked to the business class.
Business Class — 1:30 PM
The professor paced the front of the room, discussing market segmentation and consumer behavior. Thanom leaned forward, absorbing every word. This was the class that mattered most to his bakery dream. He imagined his shop nestled in a Bangkok alley, filled with the scent of vanilla and butter, customers sipping coffee and smiling.
He jotted down ideas in the margins of his notebook—loyalty cards, seasonal menus, local sourcing. His hand cramped from writing, but he didn't stop.
Culinary Class — 3:00 PM
The kitchen lab was warm and bustling. Stainless steel counters gleamed under the overhead lights. Thanom tied his apron and joined his group at Station 4.
Today's assignment: laminated dough.
He rolled, folded, chilled, and repeated. His arms ached, his fingers dusted with flour. The instructor walked by, nodding at his technique.
"Nice layers, Thanom."
"Thanks," he said, breathless.
By the end of class, his croissants were golden and puffed, the scent intoxicating. He boxed them carefully, saving one for later.
Aldi — 6:00 PM
Thanom pushed a cart through the aisles of Aldi, eyes scanning for deals. He grabbed eggs, spinach, garlic, jasmine rice, and a pack of chicken thighs. His stomach growled again, but this time he smiled.
He added a bottle of Thai sweet chili sauce and a small bouquet of yellow daisies—impulse buy.
The Oliver Apartments — 6:45 PM
Downtown Saint Louis shimmered in the evening light as Thanom unlocked the door to his apartment on the fifth floor of The Oliver. The space was modest but warm—wood floors, a tiny balcony, and a kitchen that smelled faintly of cinnamon from last night's experiment.
He kicked off his shoes, set the groceries on the counter, and turned on some soft K-pop music. Cooking was his therapy.
He chopped garlic, sautéed spinach, and pan-seared the chicken with a splash of soy sauce. The rice steamed quietly in the background. He plated everything with care, adding a drizzle of sweet chili sauce and a sprinkle of sesame seeds.
He sat at the small table by the window, the city lights twinkling below. He took a bite—savory, sweet, comforting.
He thought of his mother's bakery and his father.
" I hope I can see them soon."
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a sterile glow across the rows of electronics. Jericho stood behind the customer service counter at Best Buy, posture straight, expression unreadable. His black polo shirt was neatly tucked into slim charcoal slacks, name tag gleaming under the lights: Jericho M.—Customer Experience Specialist.
It was nearing the end of his shift. The store had quieted, save for the occasional beep of a barcode scanner and the low hum of a playlist looping through the ceiling speakers. He'd spent the last six hours restocking shelves, troubleshooting returns, and helping customers navigate the maze of tech.
Then she arrived.
A woman in her late thirties stormed up to the counter One in both hands like it was evidence in a trial. Her sunglasses were perched on her head, her lips pursed in irritation.
"I want to return this," she snapped, placing the console on the counter with a thud.
Jericho glanced at the device, then at her. "Do you have the receipt?"
"No," she said, arms crossed. "But I bought it here last year. It's defective. I want a refund."
Jericho remained calm. "Unfortunately, without a receipt or proof of purchase, I can't process a return. Especially for a product that's over a year old."
She scoffed. "Are you kidding me? I paid good money for this. You people always find a way to screw customers over."
Jericho didn't flinch. "I understand your frustration, ma'am. But our policy requires documentation. If you have a bank statement or email confirmation, I can—"
"I don't have time for this," she interrupted. "Get me your manager."
Jericho nodded once. "Of course."
He stepped away, walking with measured steps toward the back office. His manager, a tall man named Reggie with a kind face and a firm voice, followed him out moments later.
Reggie approached the counter with practiced ease. "Hi there, I'm Reggie. I hear you're having trouble with a return?"
Jericho stood quietly to the side, arms folded behind his back.
The woman launched into her tirade again, but Reggie handled it with the grace of someone who'd seen it all. After five minutes of back-and-forth, she left in a huff, Xbox still in hand.
Reggie turned to Jericho. "You handled that well."
Jericho gave a small nod. "Thanks."
"Go ahead and clock out. You've earned it."
6:15 PM — Parking Lot
Jericho stepped into the cool evening air, the sky streaked with amber and violet. He walked toward his car—a sleek black 2023 Ford Escape SE parked neatly in the second row. The vehicle gleamed under the fading sun, its tinted windows reflecting the city skyline.
He slid into the driver's seat, the interior smelling faintly of cedar and leather. He started the engine, the dashboard lighting up in soft blue. The drive to Aldi was smooth, the streets quiet, the radio playing pop music.
6:30 PM — Aldi Grocery Run
Inside Aldi, Jericho moved with quiet efficiency. He grabbed a basket and made his way through the aisles, selecting items with precision:
- A pack of boneless chicken thighs
- A bag of jasmine white rice
- Fresh broccoli florets
- Three cartons of large brown eggs
- A sleeve of plain bagels
- Two tubs of vanilla protein yogurt
- A gallon of organic whole milk
He paid in cash, thanked the cashier with a nod, and exited into the evening breeze.
7:00 PM — Home
Jericho's apartment was nestled in a luxury high-rise just off Lindell Boulevard. The building shimmered with glass and steel, its lobby adorned with minimalist art and soft lighting. He took the elevator to the twelfth floor, groceries in hand.
Inside, his space was immaculate. The kitchen was a chef's dream—marble countertops, matte black cabinets, a smart fridge that glowed softly as he approached. The living room was tastefully furnished in grayscale tones, accented with warm wood and soft textures.
He set the groceries down, kicked off his shoes, and headed to the bathroom.
7:15 PM — Shower
Steam curled around him as he stepped into the shower, the water cascading down his back. He closed his eyes, letting the tension of the day melt away. The scent of eucalyptus filled the air from a diffuser on the counter.
After drying off, he slipped into black pajama pants—soft cotton, loose around the waist—and padded barefoot into the kitchen.
7:30 PM — Protein Shake Ritual
Jericho moved with quiet rhythm, opening cabinets and fridge doors with practiced ease. He placed ingredients on the counter:
- A handful of raw almonds
- A spoonful of natural peanut butter
- A scoop of chocolate chip protein powder
- A splash of organic milk
- A few ice cubes
He blended everything until smooth, the hum of the blender filling the space. He poured the shake into a tall glass, garnished it with a sprinkle of crushed almonds, and took a slow sip.
It was rich, nutty, and just sweet enough. He leaned against the counter, staring out the window at the city lights below. The skyline pulsed with life—cars, laughter, music drifting from open windows.
Jericho didn't smile often, but tonight, he did.