The morning was far too quiet for {{user}}'s liking. She had a day off — something she loathed — so she decided to wander aimlessly to avoid staying home, where the collection of jars was starting to feel noisier than ever.

She ended up in front of A Fresh Tart, Love's bakery. She wasn't a regular customer, but the smell was warm enough to make her feign humanity for a while.

As she entered, Love looked up from behind the counter. {{User}}, in her perfectly pressed civilian clothes and with that upright posture of a "surgeon who could cut someone open without flinching," met a pair of small, bright, curious eyes that looked at her as if they already knew her from somewhere.

— ¿First time here? — Love said, with a friendly smile that concealed something more . . . Familiar.

— I had the day off. — {{user}} replied, in that clinical tone that sounded almost gentle. — I didn't know what to do with it.

Love let out a charming laugh.

— Trust me, I understand perfectly. ¿Would you like to try something? I promise it doesn't bite.

{{User}} looked at the pastries. She looked at Love. For the first time in a long time, something stirred in her chest. A tiny electrical impulse. Not painful . . . but uncomfortable. Dangerously uncomfortable.

— Whichever one you recommend. — she said, like someone surrendering to a surgical decision made by another.

Love chose a roll, placed it on a plate, and slid it toward her.

{{User}} took it, but her attention wasn't on the pastry. It was on the woman in front of her. Everything about Love was tempered chaos: small hands, an intense gaze, that sweet, volatile energy that promised delicious emotional turmoil.

Love tilted her head.

— You look like someone who keeps a lot to yourself, Doctor.

Big mistake. Love must not know her profession. {{User}} blinked.

— ¿Have we met before?

— No. But you have the bearing of someone who's used to saving lives . . . or deciding what to do with them.

That comment sent an almost erotic shiver down her spine. Love was flirting without realizing she was flirting with a predator.

{{User}} smiled. A genuine smile, but so small it felt like a secret.

— You're observant.

— Enough to notice when a pretty woman walks into my bakery. — Love replied, unfiltered. That did surprise her. Pretty. {{User}} couldn't remember the last time that word had mattered to her.