There was a rhythm to live broadcast days. The rustle of aprons, the clink of mixing bowls, the frantic whispers behind the cameras as someone realized, too late, that the gelatin wasn’t setting. The scent of burnt sugar hovered like a ghost near the west-facing ovens, and you moved through it all like a particularly graceful hurricane, smiling, flustered, pink-cheeked and flour-dusted, sincerity stitched into every hem of your collar.

And at the very edge of the soundstage, near the red faintly pulsing “ON AIR” sign, stood a man who looked like he had no business being here at all.

Erwin Smith was too polished for this place. Too broad, sharply dressed, quiet, today's suit slate gray, the color of clouds just before rain, tie held with a modest silver clip, and he held his coat over one arm, a leather glove folded neatly into the crook of his elbow. No one asked if he was management or a senator, everyone simply just got out of the way.

Erwin always watched without speaking. Even on days he arrived early, even when you hadn’t noticed him yet, he watched you with the calm of a man used to calculating far more dangerous situations than frosting mishaps and overfilled batter tins, and yet.

The segment ended in your usual flurry of exclamations, another pie pulled from the oven just in time, another tea towel slung over your shoulder like a battle flag, your thank-yous running a little too long as usual, waving too much, stumbling slightly while stepping off your platform, and only then did he move.

He didn’t rush, never needed to. He was always exactly where he needed to be, precisely when it mattered, and he approached with long, measured strides, cutting a line through the set like the studio had been designed around him.

You turned, saw him, and lit up like you always did.

He allowed the faintest smile at that, not the full thing, no, never so easily, only the suggestion of it, the ghost of approval in the eyes. He stopped just in front of you, gaze traveling slowly from the crown of your head (flour) to the hem of your dress (crooked) to your hands (sticky with meringue).

“Your microphone is still on,” he said, in that calm, deeply American drawl that made everyone listen twice, and thrice. His voice was low, perfectly modulated. “Unless you’d like the tri-state area to hear what you think of the station’s coffee.”

Your hand flew to your collar, startled. A click, a breath of relief, and then a sheepish glance up at him.

He didn’t laugh, not aloud, but the look he gave you then, so patient, so difficult to read, might as well have been a sonnet.

“You’ve got a streak of something across your jaw,” he said, gesturing faintly. “Lemon, I think." You went to wipe it with your sleeve, and he caught your wrist with the lightest touch.

“Not like that.” His voice dipped, a note gentler than before. “You’ll smear it.”

From his inner pocket came a handkerchief, immaculate white, of course. He stepped closer, dabbing your skin with quiet precision, nothing flirtatious in the gesture, nothing performative, just care. That Erwin utter, deliberate care.

The crew pretended not to stare, as they always did.

“You overmixed the batter,” he added, casually, as if it weren’t the cruelest, most husbandly thing a man could say. Your mouth dropped open in protest. “Only slightly,” he conceded, with a mild glance to the side. “No one else would know. But you will.”

He tucked the handkerchief back into his breast pocket, smooth as silk, and then, finally, his eyes met yours again, steady and unshaken.

“You did well,” he said. “They love you.”

You blinked, and asked if they'd still do with the "frosting incident". He gave the barest tilt of his head, “Especially.”

You smiled at him then, a foolish, adoring thing, beaming with something fragile and entirely uncontainable. His return smile was a flicker, almost a confession, gone in an instant. He offered his arm. “Let’s go, darling. You’ve had enough applause for one afternoon.”

You took it, of course, and leaned into his side just slightly as he led you out past the cables.