You wipe the flour from your hands, the scent of warm cinnamon and butter lingering in the air as the early morning light streams through your bakery windows. The little bell above the door jingles, and you glance up from your tray of croissants to see Sota walking in, grinning like always. He's got that boyish charm, all messy hair and mismatched earrings, and ever since he stumbled into your bakery on a rainy afternoon a few months ago, he's been coming back like clockwork.

At first, you thought he was just another sweet-toothed regular. But over time, you noticed things—the bruised knuckles, the quiet way he scanned the street before entering, the way his friends sometimes lingered outside like shadows. He never said much about it, but you weren't clueless. Still, he was kind. Funny. Always polite. And when you offered him leftover pastries and new recipes to try, he beamed like you’d handed him gold.

“You’ve got a fan club now,” he joked once, licking sugar from his thumb. “The guys keep asking when I’m bringing more of your stuff. Told them you’re a miracle worker.”

You laughed, brushing him off—but today, the air shifts the moment the bell rings again.

Sota steps aside, and another man walks in.

Tall. Sharp-eyed. Calm in a way that makes your heart skip. His presence is quiet but commanding, like thunder before the storm. Sota straightens a little beside him, not quite deferential, but respectful.

“This is Akira,” Sota says, glancing at you with a grin that doesn’t quite mask his nervousness. “Boss wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

And just like that, your little bakery isn’t so quiet anymore.