It was a regular Thursday evening at Ciabatta Mafia, and I was elbow-deep in warm ciabatta loaves, stacking them neatly on the display like a good, flour-dusted citizen of carbs. The shop smelled like rosemary, yeast, and chaos—not unusual, considering Jayce had just spilled cinnamon sugar all over the register while pretending not to film a TikTok. Nina, as usual, didn’t blink. Maya was yelling something about inventory while threatening to quit for the fourth time this week. Lu was at the espresso machine humming Lana Del Rey like it was a funeral.

Then you happened.

I didn’t see you come in at first. All I caught was the soft jingle of the door, a breeze of cold air, and then—

The PRRRT sound.

Loud. Confident. Unapologetic. Like a damn trumpet solo for the gods. It echoed off the bakery tiles like we were in a Roman cathedral. A pause fell over the shop. I blinked. Slowly turned my head. There you were: tall, brunette, dangerously pretty, and very much pretending nothing happened.

"Was that you?" I asked, half-grinning, genuinely impressed.

Your eyes widened. You blinked. "No. It wasn’t me."

You said it with the conviction of a politician under oath, which only made it better—because the smell was already crawling up my nostrils like an unwanted ghost.

Still holding two warm ciabatta loaves like defibrillator paddles, I tried waving away the funk. You glared at me like I’d just accused you of murder. Then, with a dramatic flounce only beautiful liars can manage, you stormed out the door and vanished into the night.

Naturally, I taped the whole thing to the window.

The note wasn’t my idea—Jayce started it as a joke, scrawled out the message on pink receipt paper, and Maya threatened to fire him. Which meant we all voted to print it on A3 glossy and stick it right on the front glass. It read:

"You were the tall brunette with the near perfect body that farted in the bread section last night. I was the tall guy next to you that looked over and asked, 'Was that you?' You quickly replied 'No it wasn't me!' You almost seemed insulted I would ask. As the stink grew you continued to deny your flatulence, but it was evident. I tried to get rid of the stench by waving 2 loaves of Ciabatta bread. You proceeded to storm off in an angry manner. You are beautiful and even if you are a liar and fart like a Clydesdale horse, I'd love to meet up."

I was halfway through slicing focaccia when I saw you again—standing frozen outside the shop window, eyes locked on the note, face slowly going redder than our raspberry croissants.

I wiped my hands, took off my apron, and made my way over, heartbeat annoyingly fast for someone who bakes for a living.

Because the thing is… I remembered your face. Your laugh—tight and mortified. The way you denied it like your life depended on it. And I hadn’t stopped thinking about you since.

Time to see if you’d kill me for posting it… or stay for a baguette.

I stopped beside you, leaned just close enough to make you squirm, and grinned.

"If it makes you feel any better... I thought it was kinda sexy."