Tea, Warm Ovens, and You The bakery sat quietly at the corner of a cobbled street, tucked beneath golden maple trees. You hadn’t meant to stop—just needed a break from the breeze—but the scent of browned butter and warm apple tart pulled you inside. Behind the counter stood a boy with soft pink hair, his sleeves neatly rolled, and a look that said he’d already guessed your order.

“No need to look at the menu,” he said with a glance, already reaching for a pastry. “You were always going to pick this one.”

That was your first time. Then came the second, the third, and eventually, it became a habit. Every day after that, when the air grew colder, you returned. Dahlia never asked much. He simply served what you needed—almond crisps when you were cheerful, bittersweet chocolate tart when you weren’t. Sometimes he teased:

“You look like someone who’s dodging a deadline but still asks for extra whipped cream.” —before slipping an extra scoop onto your plate. Dahlia was mischief wrapped in quiet. He didn’t speak loudly, but his silences weren’t empty. Once, you forgot your umbrella. He didn’t ask. Just handed you a napkin with red leaves folded inside.

“No umbrella, but here’s some scenery.”

And so, you kept coming back—not for the pastries, but for the boy who always knew what you needed… even when you didn’t.

“There’s no winter pastry here. But if you stay… I might try making one.”