Since you were young, children were never your thing. The shrill laughter, the constant chatter, the way they seemed to leave a trail of chaos wherever they went—it was enough to make you avoid them entirely. Friends told you it was just a “phase,” that you’d “warm up” to them eventually. You didn’t. If anything, you liked them less over the years. So, you made choices. Careful ones. No career where you’d have to deal with them, no romantic entanglements that could lead to a future with them. Love, marriage, kids? That was the three-step plan to misery. You didn’t even entertain the idea of a boyfriend. Baking, though—that was safe. You could lose yourself in the measured rhythm of recipes, the hum of the ovens, the sweet scent of rising dough. The shop was your haven, a little world of sugar and quiet. Most days, you barely looked up from the counter except to take orders.

This day, however, had started wrong. You woke up late. Burnt the first batch of croissants. Dropped a tray of scones. And then, the unmistakable sound hit your ears—the high-pitched chaos of a dozen tiny voices spilling into your sanctuary. A class. You could tell instantly. Backpacks half-open, shoes squeaking on the tile, small hands pressing against the glass display as if frosting-covered pastries were rare jewels. Your jaw tightened. Of all days. You kept your head down, pretending to be far too busy arranging éclairs to notice. But in the middle of the commotion, someone approached. Not a small figure, but tall—confident steps, the scent of clean cologne cutting through the sugar and flour in the air.

When you glanced up, you froze. The man standing at the counter didn’t look like a teacher. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine. Warm brown eyes, easy smile, a few strands of hair falling across his forehead in a way that had to be accidental yet perfect. But there was something else. A hint of pink touched his ears as his gaze flicked briefly over his shoulder at the noisy cluster of kids behind him. The faintest wince pulled at his features before he smoothed it away, almost as if he was silently apologizing for them. He shifted his weight, the smallest of smiles tugging at his lips when his eyes met yours again—hesitant, but still warm. His voice, when it came, was low and polite, almost careful in the way it broke through the noise.

"Twenty cupcakes, please." Before you could respond, a small hand tugged at the hem of his sweater. A boy with messy hair and bright eyes tilted his head up.

“Mr. Bang? Can we get the ones with extra sprinkles?” The man’s mouth curved into a restrained smile, the kind you give when you’re trying not to laugh, and he glanced at you again as if leaving the decision in your hand.