Elias Blackwood didn't bleed neatly. It came in slow, syrupy pulses, painting a map of ruin down the side of his shirt. The alley blurred and tilted as he stumbled forward, each step as steady as a drunkard's promise. Clutching his side, he let out a muttered curse—a sharp word slicing the icy air.
Every instinct screamed to keep moving, to keep his head down, but he needed shelter. Somewhere obscure. Somewhere no one would ask questions.
He almost walked past the tiny shop—its soft glow spilling onto the cracked sidewalk -a bakery. "Golden Crumbs," read the painted glass, letters cheerful and hand-drawn. The scent of fresh bread wafted like a balm, clashing with the copper tang of blood in his nose.
It had to do.
Inside, Ezra Thornton hummed softly as he kneaded dough for tomorrow's loaves. Flour dusted his pale arms and cheeks, blending into the golden freckles that danced across his nose. Ezra, ever the optimist, believed in the healing power of bread—warm crusts, buttered middles, and honeyed edges. It was his routine, his ritual. His safety.
Until the door crashed open, the bell jingling like an alarm.
Ezra dropped the dough, eyes snapping up. The man staggering into his bakery looked like he belonged in a noir detective flick—leather coat, blood-soaked shirt, and a crooked smirk that would've been charming if he weren't bleeding over Ezra's tile floor.
"What—what happened to you?" Ezra's voice wavered, his heart thundering against his ribs.
The stranger braced himself against the counter. "Knife. Can I—" He hissed as his knees buckled, collapsing into a heap before Ezra could blink. "Stay?"
Ezra didn't think. He moved.
The next thing Elias knew, he was waking up on a lumpy couch in a room that smelled of sugar and cinnamon. Warmth pressed against his ribs, and when he glanced down, he saw neatly tied bandages peeking out from under his shirt.
"You're awake." The voice was soft, musical—belonging to a face that was, by all rights, sunshine incarnate. Ezra stood in the doorway, holding a steaming cup. His auburn hair was a mess, and he had the kind of smile that could light up cities.
"Who are you?" Elias croaked.
"Ezra. You crashed into my bakery." Ezra placed the cup on the coffee table—tea, Elias noted, not coffee. "You looked like you needed help."
"Or a morgue," Elias quipped, though his smirk faltered when Ezra flinched. It was a small movement, almost imperceptible, but Elias had spent years reading people. Trauma lingered in Ezra's shoulders, in the way he avoided eye contact. The sunshine façade was a fragile thing.
Ezra cleared his throat, attempting brightness. "You're lucky I'm a night owl. And that I didn't call the police."
That got Elias's attention. He leaned forward, wincing as pain flared in his side. "Why didn't you?"
Ezra hesitated. "I don't trust them." His voice was quiet, a shadow of something old and jagged slipping through. "Besides, you didn't look like you'd hurt me."
Elias chuckled, though it turned into a cough. "You've got terrible judgment."
"Maybe." Ezra folded his arms, and for a moment, a flicker of steel shone in his gaze. "But I stand by it."
Ezra should've been terrified. He should've kicked the bleeding stranger out and locked the door behind him. But something about Elias—his tired eyes, the sarcastic humor masking raw pain—made Ezra want to help. To protect, even if it was a terrible idea.
He found himself fussing, bringing water and fresh towels. Elias grumbled about it, but he didn't stop him.
By the time dawn began to creep through the windows, Elias had shared bits of his story. He was a private detective, not officially with the police but close enough to rub elbows with the law. The case that had landed him in Ezra's bakery involved a missing girl, a drug ring, and more knives than he cared to count.
"And you thought getting stabbed was a good strategy?" Ezra asked, incredulous.
Elias smirked. "I was improvising."
Ezra shook his head, biting back a laugh. "You're unbelievable."
"So I've been told." Elias's voice softened. "Why'd you help me?"
Ezra hesitated. "Because I know what it's like to need help. And not get it."
The room fell silent. Elias wanted to press, to ask, but he recognized the wall Ezra had just put up. Instead, he settled back against the cushions, letting the warmth of the bakery seep into his bones.
"Thanks," Elias said quietly.
Ezra smiled, small but genuine. "You're welcome."
The days that followed were a study in contrasts.
Elias was a gruff cynic, all sharp edges and dry humor. Ezra was his opposite—gentle, kind, and unfailingly patient. Yet, they found an odd rhythm. Elias helped around the bakery when he could, though he complained about the early mornings and flour getting everywhere. Ezra laughed, teasing him but never pushing too far.
It wasn't long before Elias noticed the cracks in Ezra's sunny demeanor. The way his hands trembled when a loud noise startled him. The locked door at the back of the bakery that Ezra never opened.
One evening, as they shared a quiet dinner in the kitchen, Elias finally asked, "What happened to you?"
Ezra froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. "What do you mean?"
"You're jumpy," Elias said, his tone careful. "And you keep looking over your shoulder, like someone's coming for you."
Ezra put his fork down, his hands shaking. "I don't... I don't talk about it."
"You don't have to," Elias said quickly. "But if you ever want to—"
"Not yet," Ezra interrupted his voice firm. "I can't."
Elias nodded. "Okay. I'll wait."
Ezra's eyes softened, and for the first time, he reached across the table, covering Elias's hand with his own. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes.
Their relationship grew in fits and starts, like a seedling pushing through cracks in concrete. Elias lingered longer than he intended, patching himself up in more ways than one. Ezra's warmth was infectious, a balm for wounds Elias hadn't realized he was carrying.
And Ezra, despite his fears, found solace in Elias's presence. The detective's quiet strength, his refusal to pry, and his sharp wit made Ezra feel seen in a way he hadn't in years.
One night, as they stood in the kitchen washing dishes, Ezra said, "You could stay, you know. For as long as you need."
Elias glanced at him, surprised. "You sure?"
Ezra smiled, a little shy but steady. "Yeah. I like having you around."
Elias grinned. "You're not bad company yourself, baker."
They both laughed, the sound filling the small kitchen like music. For the first time in years, it felt like home.
