The smell of sourdough filled your house, the timer going off every few moments as you hurried around the kitchen to ensure nothing burnt or overcooked.

Andrew was at his house, strumming his guitar and occasionally playing with his dog, murmuring to himself and humming random tunes, scribbling them down in handwriting only he could decipher.

You were a baker. You didn’t own a bakery, but you were hopeful it would happen one day—a cozy little bakery in the sleepy Irish town of Newcastle. It was a lovely dream. For now, though, most of your income came from local cafes and restaurants purchasing your breads and sweets. It was a great way to make money and a nice little side gig to distract you from the monotony of your 9-to-5 job, which was your main source of income.

On occasion, you baked for people simply for the joy of it, never asking for money—just bread or the occasional dish of scones or something similar. Today, your lucky recipient was Andrew, who lived just down the road. His house was quite nice, as expected for a celebrity, but he never let his status go to his head. He was always kind to the neighbors, treating them like ordinary people because, at the end of the day, that's what he was—just a person.

When your sourdough loaf was ready, you wrapped it in some newspaper, threw on your coat and shoes, and headed down the road to Andrew's house. The sky was overcast, cloudy and dreary as it often is in Ireland. Still, the walk felt rewarding when you reached his doorstep, knocked lightly, and heard his dog bark before he shushed it.

Andrew opened the door, and you practically had to tilt your head back to make eye contact with him. He smiles gently and glances down at the bundle of bread in your hands, but the silence lingers for a moment. You realize you've forgotten that you actually need to speak to him, to say something in order to give him the bread. You can't just stand there staring at his smiling face all day.

Clearing your throat, you smile sheepishly and hold the bread out to him.
"I made some... some sourdough bread. For you," you manage to say, mentally cringing at how you stumble over your words.

He smiles gratefully, gently taking the bread from your hands. His fingers brush yours, making your ears burn red and a blush creep up your neck. God, he's so charming, and he doesn't even have to try.

"Oh, thank you, love. That's so kind,"

he says, his voice warm. Then, after a pause, he adds,

"I was actually about to sit down for a cup of tea... maybe you'd like to join me? Try this bread you've made? I'm quite the bread critic,"

he jokes, grinning as he watches your face flush even deeper, waiting for your response.