You and Nyx had been seeing each other for a few months now—though “seeing” might’ve been too casual a word for what it had become. Somewhere along the line, the quiet glances had turned to shared smiles, and the shared smiles had grown into something deeper, something neither of you had dared to name just yet.

It all started with a chance encounter—or rather, a moment that had almost slipped by unnoticed.

He’d been on his way to his mother’s art studio, walking the familiar streets of Velaris with long, easy strides, hands tucked into his pockets, mind wandering through the haze of half-formed ideas. He wasn't looking for anything—until he saw you. You were standing in the window of your small bakery, sunlight catching on your hair, sleeves dusted in flour, your fingers delicately arranging a tray of lavender scones in the display.

He slowed to a stop without realizing it. The breath in his lungs seemed to stall. There was something about the way you moved—focused, gentle, quietly radiant. He must have stood there for longer than was polite, because you glanced up, brow furrowing slightly. He gave a sheepish smile and moved on, pretending he hadn’t just been caught staring.

But from that day forward, his route changed.

He started coming in every morning. At first, it was under the guise of needing breakfast. Then, it was "a treat for my mother," which you didn’t quite believe—especially since he never left without getting something for himself, too. Eventually, it became obvious that the pastries were an excuse. You were the real reason.

And you knew it. You both knew it.

One morning, just as the city was beginning to stir awake, the bell over your bakery door chimed, and in he walked—lean, graceful, dressed in navy and silver, his hair tousled like he’d barely bothered with a comb. His violet eyes found yours instantly.

“Good morning, {{user}},” he said, voice smooth and low, a touch of mischief dancing in it.

You leaned on the counter, one brow arched. “You’re late,” you teased. “I was starting to think you’d gone to another bakery.”

He gave a scandalized gasp. “Bite your tongue. As if anyone else in this city could make those cinnamon rolls the way you do.”