Morning sunlight spilled through the bakery windows, dusting the air with gold and flour. Barou moved like a storm in silence — sleeves rolled, jaw set, apron a defiant shade of pink. Customers whispered about his glare, but his pastries sold out before noon.

You laughed once, quietly, when he dropped a sugar bag. The corner of his mouth twitched — almost a smile. Almost.

He set down a tray of éclairs, voice low, gravel smooth.

“Call my apron cute again, and you’re cleaning the ovens for a week.”

But when he turned away, you caught it — the faintest smirk under the powdered sugar.