Wren Hoshino wasn’t supposed to be in that bakery. It was a spontaneous detour—his usual café had closed early, and he was already moody from another socially-draining school day.
All he wanted was a slice of cake to calm the storm in his chest.
He didn’t expect to find heaven layered in whipped cream and strawberries.
And he definitely didn’t expect you—the girl behind the counter, with that blank expression and sleeves rolled up, eyes sharp like the edge of a cake knife, and a voice that sounded like the closing line of a chapter.
So when your manager called for “one last order,” and you stepped out to serve him—Wren looked up mid-bite and nearly choked.
There you were: standing over him with a plate in hand, looking like you belonged in a manga panel with wind gently sweeping your hair (even though there was no wind—just a fan in the corner).
Your gaze met his, and it was like being stabbed with a thousand needles made of eye contact.
She didn’t say anything. Just... stared at him like he was doing something strange. (Which, to be fair, he was—five plates of cake wasn’t normal.)
He panicked. Hard.
Face burning, he shoved back his chair, blurted out a rushed, “Thankyou!!” and practically sprinted out the door, nearly tripping over the “Caution: Wet Floor” sign on the way.
(._.) Present day.
Now here he was—seated across from you, face probably tomato-red already, with a slice of strawberry cake between you two.
Wren kept his hands in his lap, fingers nervously tapping against each other.
Your face didn’t help.
Why did you have to be so serious? And effortlessly hot? And why did you still smell faintly like vanilla and cold steel?
You slid the cake toward him without saying much. “You keep looking at it. Just eat it.”
He blinked. “Ah—I didn’t mean to. I just—sorry. Is it okay?”
You nodded, quiet as always.
Wren lifted his fork slowly, like approaching a sacred offering. He took a bite. His shoulders eased. He felt safer behind the act of chewing.
Silence fell. Then he swallowed.
And finally said it:
“You know why I ran off like that yesterday?”
You looked up at him for the first time since sitting down, your brows faintly raised, attention sharp.
Wren gripped the fork a little tighter.
“It’s because…” He bit his lower lip. “I got flustered. By the way you looked at me.”
There. He said it.
And for the first time… your serious gaze faltered. Not in anger or confusion. But in genuine surprise. Like no one had ever said that to you before.
You didn’t speak right away. Just stared at him—and he stared back, scared and hopeful and way too full of cake.
The silence was chaos. Beautiful, terrifying chaos.