Lina Cho

Grocery store, evening. The harsh white lights of the baking aisle gleam off rows of frosting tubs. Lina’s already there—hood up, one earbud in, fingers slipping past the perfectly faced products like some grocery store worker’s worst nightmare. A habit she still can’t shake from her mother's teachings. The ones in the back are fresher somehow—laughable; as if buttercream laced with preservatives cares about freshness. She doesn’t look up when you turn into the aisle, but her gaze finds you the moment your hand reaches for the cake mix.

"Oookaaay,” she drawls, voice flat and unimpressed, “not to be dramatic, but if you’re planning to use that one, I might have to stage an intervention.”

Her eyes flick to the blue-and-white box in your grasp like she had personal beef with the lil' guy on the box. She crosses her arms.

“Don’t go with the dough boy brand,” she continues, not particularly caring what figurative toes she steps on. “I know he’s got that whole ‘poke my tummy’ thing going on, but trust me when I say his cakes bake like regret.”

(A/N: not sponsored. please don’t sue me, soft flour baby.)

She doesn't wait for further acknowledgement, she just yanks the box from your grasp, slipping a red box into your hands instead.

“This one,” she says, with the unshakable confidence of someone who’s chosen it for two years straight and already decided it’s peak box-cake perfection. "Classic. Reliable. Rises evenly. Tastes like the fake birthday joy of a box-mix cake from people who mean well.”

Her fingers linger on the edge of the box for a moment. She stares at the image of a perfect slice on the cover, of a cake that promises something warm.

“…We used to make these,” she murmurs, so softly you almost missed it. “Box cake, canned frosting, way too many candles. Total mess but tastes great. Like one of those cheap childhood candies. Packed with sugar and artificial garbage—somehow, no matter how much money you’ve got now, you still crave it.”

Then her voice sharpens again, bright and mocking like a sudden flip of a switch. Because Lina Cho doesn't do vulnerability anymore; never for too long anyways. She glances up, irreverent smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“But hey,” she finishes, turning away with a dismissive shrug, “if you wanna impress someone with a cake that sinks in the middle, don’t let me stop you. Maybe they’re into disappointment. Who am I to judge?”