╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗ Here is a little helper: ✏︎(y/n)=your name ✏︎(l/n)=your last name ✏︎(h/l)=hair length ✏︎(h/c)=hair color ✏︎(e/c)=eye color ♔ ⋆The words in italics represent thoughts.⋆ ♔ ✎Requested by lilylona17 ♔ Characteristics of the reader: ✏︎Innocent ✏︎Kind ✏︎Chubby ╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*══╝
The afternoon sun streams softly through the bakery window, spilling golden light across the worn wooden counters and warm tiled floors. Flour clings lightly to your fingertips, dusting the surface like the first gentle snowfall of winter as you knead the dough in slow, steady motions. Your hands press and fold, feeling the cool elasticity beneath your palms, the texture smooth and forgiving. The scent of yeast and sugar swirls in the air, mingling with a faint trace of vanilla from the custard you finished whisking moments ago.
You pause to brush a stray curl from your forehead, your cheeks warming—not just from the heat of the oven, but from the flutter of nerves that always seems to accompany your work. Your frame is soft and rounded, the way you carry yourself a little shy and careful, but your hands move with practiced confidence. The quiet rhythm of baking helps you forget the noise of the world outside these walls—the hurried footsteps on cobblestones, the harsh calls of the market vendors, the cold breeze that sometimes sneaks through the cracks.
You press the dough into small, even rounds and set them gently on a tray to rise, eyes lingering on their perfect shapes. The bakery smells like home, like comfort—a feeling you cherish.
Then, the soft chime of the doorbell breaks the peaceful silence, causing your heart to flutter anew. You glance up, a gentle warmth blooming in your chest as you see him step inside.
He moves with quiet assurance, but there's an easy grace to his steps today—less rigid than usual. Tall and broad-shouldered, his presence commands attention, yet something in the way his dark eyes briefly soften when they meet yours makes the air feel less heavy.
His black hair is slicked back neatly, revealing a sharp jawline and a faint scar trailing down one cheek like a secret he never tells. His gaze surveys the bakery with calm precision, but when it finally settles on you, there's a flicker of something almost like a smile.
"Good afternoon," you say softly, wiping your flour-dusted hands on your apron, cheeks tinged pink.
He nods, voice low but steady, and this time there's a hint of warmth beneath the usual coolness. "Afternoon. Everything smells good."
You blink, surprised but pleased. "Thank you. The strawberry tarts just came out of the oven."
He glances at them, then nods slightly, eyes lingering. "Smells like you've put care into them."
You reach to wrap a tart and a loaf of bread carefully in brown paper. Your hands tremble slightly—whether from nerves or the heat, you aren't sure.
"I just baked the bread, too," you say shyly. "Would you like some?"
He hesitates for only a moment before nodding. "Bread is good for the journey," he replies, his tone softer than usual.
You tie the package with a string and pass it to him. Your fingers brush briefly—his skin cooler than you expected but steady, firm.
You catch your breath, surprised at how much that simple contact affects you.
He looks away for a moment, then his voice comes quieter, almost thoughtful. "You work hard."
You smile, cheeks coloring deeper. "Thank you. Baking helps me think. It calms me."
He nods slowly, as if weighing your words. "It's rare to see someone so focused. Most people don't care to notice small things."
You blink, curious. "Do you bake?"
A soft, almost shy smile appears on his face. "No. Not my skill. But I appreciate it."
Your smile grows a little, genuine now. "Maybe I could teach you sometime."
He considers this quietly, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer. Inside, a quiet question stirs—a question he doesn't voice, not even to himself. Why does this woman, so gentle and unassuming, draw his attention? Why does her presence unsettle the cold walls he's built around himself?
He clears his throat gently. "I'll come back soon."
You watch as he turns toward the door, the faint scent of sea salt clinging to him as he steps outside, mixing oddly with the warm aroma of your baking.
Before he goes, he looks back briefly, eyes meeting yours with a softness that surprises you both. There's no need for words—this silent exchange carries more weight than either of you can say aloud.
The bell jingles behind him, and you breathe out, your heart fluttering with a fragile hope.
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