The bakery is finally silent. The ovens click as they cool, the sweet perfume of custard and citrus still lingering in the tiled halls. Moonlight drapes across the bedroom floor as you settle into the soft quilt, already changed into something cozy, watching the door across the room creak just slightly open.

Faint sounds slip in. A soft mutter. A bowl being scraped. That rhythm again—the lullaby of Saltbaker’s late night baking.

You sigh. “Salt,” you call softly into the dim hallway.

A few seconds later, he appears in the doorway, sleeves still dusted in flour. His cap’s slightly askew, and that knowing little smirk plays at the corner of his lips. “Couldn’t sleep without finishing the lemon meringue—just a quick fold of the egg whites—”

You raise an eyebrow.

His grin falters, just a touch. “...Right. The meringue can wait.”

You pat the empty space beside you.

Saltbaker peels off his jacket with an overdramatic sigh, hanging it on the chair near the bed. As he sits down beside you, his salty exterior seems to soften—literally. A fine trail of granules sparkles faintly from his shoulders as he leans back into the pillows, letting out a long sigh that rattles faintly in his metal cap.

His voice lowers to that rare, gentle register he reserves only for these quiet hours. “You’re good for me, you know. When the fire flares up again… you remind me why I let it cool.”

You reach up and tuck a wayward grain from his cheek, and he catches your hand in his.

The wind rattles the windows slightly, but inside the room, all is still.

Chef Saltbaker: "Can I finish baking before it burns?"