Outside Work We... •[TNN One-shots]•

Holiday Sparks •|| CLORSHA ||•

Prompt: Sorcha goes to a bakery with her mother and was met with a beautiful sight.

The small bell above the bakery door chimed as Sorcha pushed it open, her mother right behind her. The rich scent of cinnamon, vanilla, and freshly baked bread welcomed them like a warm hug against the frosty chill of the winter afternoon. Sorcha wasn't thrilled about running errands, but pastries were tradition, and tradition was everything in her family.

Her gaze swept the bakery as she adjusted her scarf, brushing the snowflakes from her shoulders. And then she saw her.

Behind the counter stood a young woman with soft blonde hair tucked under a white baker's cap. Her cheeks were tinged pink, maybe from the warmth of the ovens, and a sprinkle of flour dusted her apron. She smiled at a customer—a small, shy smile that Sorcha couldn't seem to look away from.

She was beautiful.

"Isn't this place charming?" her mother said, oblivious, scanning the holiday decorations that adorned the shelves: garlands of pine, fairy lights twinkling like tiny stars, and a small tree by the window with gingerbread ornaments.

Sorcha barely managed a nod. Her heart raced for reasons she couldn't name, and her hands were suddenly clammy in her gloves. She was here for pastries, not...whatever this was. She tore her eyes away and studied the glass display case, pretending to be engrossed in the trays of eclairs, tarts, and sugar-dusted cookies.

"Good afternoon!" came a voice as warm as the bakery itself. Sorcha's breath hitched.

She glanced up, and there she was again—closer now, standing behind the register. Her nametag read Clodagh.

"Can I help you find something?" Clodagh asked, her eyes meeting Sorcha's. For a moment, it felt as though the world beyond the bakery door didn't exist.

Sorcha froze, her rehearsed response scattering like snow in the wind. Her mother, ever the conversationalist, jumped in. "We're here to pick out pastries for Christmas Eve dinner. Do you have anything festive?"

"Oh, definitely!" Clodagh's face lit up. "We've got spiced apple turnovers, gingerbread cupcakes, and peppermint éclairs. Or if you're looking for something more traditional, our mince pies are very popular."

Her voice was melodic, laced with an accent Sorcha couldn't quite place. It made her stomach do flips.

"Why don't you pick something, Sorcha?" her mother suggested, nudging her toward the counter.

Sorcha swallowed hard and stepped closer. Her pulse thundered in her ears. "Uh, the éclairs," she managed, her voice quieter than she'd intended.

"Good choice," Clodagh said with a small smile, grabbing a pastry box. "They're my favorite."

Sorcha felt her face flush. She wasn't sure if it was the heat of the bakery or the way Clodagh looked at her with those soft, kind eyes. Eyes that seemed to see more than Sorcha was willing to admit.

"Helping out for the holidays?" her mother asked casually, clearly oblivious to the silent war waging inside Sorcha.

Clodagh nodded, tying the box with a festive red ribbon. "Yes, my dad owns the place. It's our busiest time of year, so I help when I can." She looked at Sorcha again, and for a fleeting moment, something unspoken passed between them—something fragile, like snowflakes resting on a windowpane.

Sorcha's chest tightened. She knew what this feeling was, though she'd tried to bury it for years. She could hear her father's voice in her head, stern and unforgiving, reminding her of the rules, the expectations, the things that were "wrong."

But as she watched Clodagh's hands deftly secure the ribbon, a small voice inside her whispered: How can something so beautiful be wrong?

"Here you go," Clodagh said, handing the box to her. Their fingers brushed for a fraction of a second, but it was enough to send a jolt of warmth through Sorcha's entire body.

"Thank you," Sorcha murmured, clutching the box as though it might steady her.

Clodagh hesitated, her own cheeks now a shade darker. "Merry Christmas," she said softly, her gaze lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

"Merry Christmas," Sorcha replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

As they left the bakery, her mother chattered on about their plans for the evening, but Sorcha's mind was elsewhere. She glanced back over her shoulder one last time, catching a glimpse of Clodagh through the window, arranging pastries with a quiet focus.

Unbeknownst to Sorcha, Clodagh was watching her too, stealing a glance every time the doorbell chimed. She knew the conflict in Sorcha's eyes because she had felt it herself. But for now, all she could do was hope that one day, they might both find the courage to follow the pull of something so undeniably real.