Love Over A Croissant

A/N: Random idea from rainteaanddragons, used with permission.

http://rainteaanddragons.tumblr.com/post/137018726908/a-fairy-tail-gratsu-au-where-natsu-is-a-baker

...

I stopped in the bakery randomly one day on the way to work. Not much, skipped breakfast, needed something quick to eat on the bus, so I figured a croissant would tide me over.

That was when I saw ... him.

I don't know what did it for me. The wild pink hair? The tattoo? Muscular arms? That beaming smile? The warmth that seemed to radiate from him, a heat that lingered in the warm croissant as I ate it on the bus?

It bothered me, that feeling in my chest, the interest so sudden and all-consuming. I could barely focus at work as that smile kept flashing into my brain and his simple, cheerful words. "What'll you have? Anything else? Okay, here ya go!"

I had to see him again!

I felt nervous coming in the next day, shivering inside as I faced him. His eyes were hypnotic, his grin fiery in my heart, and I could barely sputter out my order. Croissant. Plain. As he handed it to me, our hands touched for a fraction of a second, such warm hands from handling bread fresh out of the oven.

I ate that croissant preciously on the bus, still feeling the fire of that touch.

It became a habit. Weeks past. You would think I'd get sick of croissants for breakfast five days a week, but to see him, to speak to him ... a croissant diet was worth those few minutes of joy.

"You're back!"

That familiarity blazed in my chest.

"Oh hey! The usual?"

He knew me, knew my order!

"Perfect timing! I have your croissant hot and ready for you."

To think that he prepared it just for me made my cheeks glow. I felt like we were getting closer through baked goods, a simple croissant tying me to him.

"Debit card this time? Oh, your name's Gray? Awesome name."

I lacked the courage to ask for his. No name tag. No way of knowing who this man was. I could not speak to him, not with my heart pounding from the moment I smelled the bakery aroma from down the sidewalk.

It was not always him to ring me up. Two others worked there, one with green hair pulled in a ponytail and always working in the back, kneading the dough and making the bread, and a server with glasses and ginger hair. They traded off, the pinkie and the ginger, either ringing customers or checking the bread. I liked to imagine that Pinkie conspired with Ginger to be at the cash register at the time I always arrived, like clockwork, ten minutes before the bus arrived on the street corner.

But he was not always there.

Ginger smiled just as brightly, his words low and heavenly. He was a favorite among the ladies, who would go up to him for silly and random things. More butter, an extra pat of cream cheese, blushing and giggling as they scurried back to their tables.

For some reason, the same fiery spark was not there with him and me. I would look at my pinkie, those muscles tightening as he pulled out trays of fresh rolls, the flush to his face as the oven heat blasted him. How strong must he be!

I liked watching him work the ovens and those bulging muscles flexing, and I liked the brief exchanges at the cash register, the smiles, the clandestine touch of hands. He always handed the croissant directly to me, not setting it down on the counter between us and pushing it over like he did to female customers.

I wanted to think it was something special between us.

And I knew I was being an idiot.

I was just some customer, one of many.

I didn't even know his name!

"I could just give you his number, you know?"

The whisper from Ginger jolted me out of watching those biceps lifting bake pans. Speechless, stunned, even a little horrified, I could not move or speak, not to answer him nor to demand my daily croissant and run out of there.

Ginger chuckled, yanked out a napkin, and jotting something down. He placed the croissant on top and slid it over.

"Just helping both of you out," he whispered with a wink. "This one's on the house. Customer loyalty."

I numbly picked up my free croissant. I stared at it as I walked out of the bakery and to the street corner. I could not even eat, staring at the ink now pressed against my breakfast.

The bus pulled up, clockwork timing, and I took my regular seat. How long had this been going on, this habit, every day the same bakery, the same order, the same bus?

All so I could see him for a few minutes, the man I did not know, the man with whom I had falling in love over a croissant.

I pulled my food away from the writing. Darkened with bakery grease, the number was still there, as well as a name.

"Natsu," I whispered, staring at the name, the spelling, how the syllables tumbled over my tongue. Natsu!

Did I dare use this chance?

I pulled out my phone and, with fingers trembling, sent a text. "Thank you for the croissants. Gray."

He was working. A reply would come later, probably on his lunch break. How shocked would he be to see that? Would he frown and wonder who this stranger was, or would he scream in shock while blushing, hands trembling as he gawked at the phone and its unexpected text?

The ginger said he was helping both of us out. Was Natsu as enamored as I was? Had my wild fantasies of him being at the register right at that moment, of grinning brighter when I came in at my usual time, of handing over the croissant and touching my fingers, all those things I thought were silly wishful thinking...

Was it all true?

I bit into my croissant and smiled.

When I go to the bakery tomorrow, I'm going to tell him. "Natsu, give me a croissant." When he hands it over, I will look straight into his eyes and say, "Thank you, Natsu."

I'm going to use his name.

And maybe...

Maybe...

We can have something more than baked goods to bind us.