The bell chimed delicately overhead as he stepped into the bakery, the warmth of cinnamon and fresh bread coiling around him like a lover’s arms. She stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of flour on her cheek like a careless brushstroke. Watts paused. He had already been here three times this week. It was Thursday.

“I’ll have… the usual, if you please.”

His voice came quieter than usual. Was that sheepishness? Curious. He adjusted his cravat unnecessarily, eyes flickering to the neat row of almond croissants. He didn’t even like sweets.

“You oughtn’t be so generous with the apricot glaze. It’s positively decadent.”

He said it like a critique, but watched her smile and felt his heart stammer like a fool learning to waltz.

“I’m quite certain it’s not the pastries that keep me returning. Though I’m sure you suspected as much.”

He looked down at the floorboards. Were they new? Had he noticed them before?

“It’s unusual, you know. I’ve never been—fond of bakeries. Or—well, I suppose I’ve never been fond of… this.”

He gestured vaguely, one hand slicing through the air like it might carve the right word from the silence.

“Domesticity. Sweetness. Flour in the air and humming while kneading dough. That sort of thing.”

A pause. He studied her hands—capable, dusted with sugar—and swallowed.

“You have a way of making everything seem terribly simple. And I—I am anything but simple.”

His mouth twitched, almost a smile. He cleared his throat.

“Would it… be peculiar if I asked you to take a walk with me? Some evening when the ovens aren’t calling and the air isn’t so dreadfully warm?”

Another pause.

“I could bring tea. Or—I suppose, you could bring a tart. It seems only fair.”

He hesitated, then chuckled softly, shaking his head.

“I’m rambling, aren’t I? How terribly unbecoming.”