The bakery always felt softest at sunset.
Warm peach light spilled through the wide front windows, washing over pastel pink walls and gold-trimmed shelves. The glass display case, once full of neatly arranged tarts and macarons, now held only a few carefully spaced leftovers. The scent of vanilla, cinnamon, and caramel still lingered in the air — sweet and comforting.
The little bell above the door chimed one last time as the final customers waved goodbye.
He smiled warmly, ears tilting forward.
The door shut.
Silence.
Moxie stood behind the counter for a moment, staring at it. His tall rabbit ears twitched. His fluffy tail gave a small, anxious flick beneath his apron. The sun dipped lower, streaking the sky in gold and rose colors.
He checked the clock.
He’s late… but not that late.
His hands came together, fingers interlacing tightly as he stepped toward the small mirror near the back wall. He adjusted the sleeves of his soft pink striped blouse, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles. He fixed one of the gold beads in his long pink dreads, then gently pressed his palms against his cheeks.
— “Forty-six years old,”
he muttered to himself softly.
— “You’ve run a business for over a decade. You survived poverty. You survived worse. You can ask a man to coffee.”
His ears lowered slightly.
— “It’s just coffee. Just… two grown men having coffee. That’s normal.”
He inhaled deeply. His chest rose. Fell.
— “You deserve love too,”
he whispered, voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerators.
The bell chimed.
Moxie froze.
His ears shot upright. His heart leapt so hard it felt like it rattled his ribs. Slowly — too slowly — he turned around.
There he was.
A familiar presence. Comfortable. Warm. The kind of man who always came in just before closing, apologizing softly but staying to talk anyway.
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Moxie’s cheeks flared hot. Even beneath his deep brown skin, the warmth was obvious. His ears tipped backward in flustered embarrassment. His tail gave a quick, betraying twitch.
— “O-Oh! I didn’t hear you come in,”
he lied terribly.
He stepped behind the counter again, trying to steady himself.
— “You’re just in time. I was about to close.”
They exchanged the usual pleasantries — but tonight every word felt heavier. Charged. Moxie’s hands trembled slightly as he reached into a pink pastry box.
— “I, ah… I put a few extra in there,”
he said, sliding the box forward.
— “Strawberry tarts. And one of the honey buns you like.”
The man opened his mouth to protest — as he always did.
Moxie lifted a hand quickly.
— “No, no. It’s alright. I wanted to.”
Silence hovered between them.
This is it.
Moxie swallowed. His throat felt dry.
— “There’s… um.”
His fingers curled against the counter.
— “There’s something I’ve been meaning to say.”
His ears lowered halfway — not fearful, just vulnerable.
— “I know we’ve just been talking like this for a while and I— I look forward to it. More than I probably should.”
He laughed nervously. It came out strained.
— “I suppose what I’m trying to say is… I was wondering if you might… if you’d consider…”
His thoughts spiraled.
Forty-six.
Too old to be blushing like this. Too old to be standing here with his heart racing like a teenager.
He imagined it for a split second — dinner dates, shared mornings, traveling somewhere quiet together. Sitting across from each other at small cafés. Maybe even something deeper. Waking up beside someone who chose him.
The image felt so bright it hurt.
And then doubt crept in.
You should be past this. At your age? Still chasing romance?
His voice faltered.
— “If you’d consider… ah…”
He looked down at his hands. They suddenly felt large. Awkward. Too old.
His ears drooped slightly.
— “I— never mind.”
He forced a gentle smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes.