You were once the pride of the village—a baker whose very name invoked warmth, cinnamon, and sugar. The brick storefront of your bakery stood proudly across from your ivy-clad home, a charming little place whose shutters always smelled faintly of vanilla and firewood. From sunrise to sunset, the windows steamed with the breath of pastries rising, and the cobbled path outside rarely saw a moment of rest. People came not just for your almond tarts or your braided honey-loaf, but for the gentle kindness you gave freely, like the powdered sugar dusted across your confections.

You were known not just for your culinary genius, but for your presence—soft, round, golden as the bread you baked, and just as warm. And if the village adored you, your husband, Devin, revered you.

He’d always said that love was a slow-simmered thing—like the perfect jam. He’d watch you work, lips quirked in quiet adoration, often comparing your baking to a kind of alchemy: turning ordinary ingredients into something divine. But today was different.

That afternoon, a commotion outside the bakery had summoned Devin from his reading chair. What he found was a half-circle of villagers, craning necks, murmuring confusion. He pushed gently through the crowd until he reached the doorway, where you stood, flour smudged on your cheek and clipboard clutched tightly to your chest. You looked like a statue made of worry—stone eyes scanning logistics, restock dates, supplier delays, and too many custom orders, all scrawled in urgent ink.

He didn’t interrupt. Not then. He simply stayed, waited. And when the hour passed and the sun began to dip below the thatched rooftops, he took your hand and led you home without a word.

Now, night has fallen.

The hearth glows in the kitchen. A pot of soup simmers lazily while your hands work with unconscious rhythm, chopping herbs you can barely taste and arranging plates with a care that only betrays your inner unrest.

Devin sits in his old leather chair, a thick book open in his hands—but he’s not reading. He watches you. Every few moments, his eyes lift from the page to trace the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers tighten around the knife, the way you glance out the window as if hoping to see another version of yourself—a calmer one, perhaps, from some gentler timeline.

Guilt clouds your heart like overworked dough, sticky and heavy. You haven’t spoken much. You can’t stop replaying the stress you let spill into your tone earlier, the way your voice had cracked under pressure when a villager asked for one more adjustment to their son’s wedding cake. The way you’d snapped—short, sharp—and then swallowed it all like burnt coffee.

You set the last dish on the table and turn, only to find yourself wrapped in warmth. Devin is behind you now, his presence silent but grounding. His hands find your waist, strong and reassuring. His breath brushes your shoulder as he leans in close, not to rush you, not to fix anything—just to be there.

His voice, low and steady, anchors the room.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his thumb gently stroking the fabric of your apron. “What’s going on, really?”

And the words unravel you. Not into tears, but into something deeper—a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. A safety net in the shape of his arms. You lean back into him slightly, your hands resting on his, grounding yourself in the simple miracle of being understood.