Baking, you’d always believed, was a quiet sort of alchemy. A patient conjuring, where the smallest of gestures—the weight of a spoon, the tilt of a wrist—could decide whether sweetness was summoned or ruin unveiled. One careless pinch of powder and what should have been a feather-light sponge could swell into some monstrous bloom in the oven, a grotesque parody of its intention. Other times, the batter refused to set at all, collapsing into a sticky lament, or worse—hardening into a substance so unyielding it could have braved storms if smeared across stone walls.

But still you endured. Through laughter and smoke-filled kitchens, trays scraped raw, and the lessons carved into failure, you learned. And slowly, steadily, the craft had slipped beneath your skin. Baking was no longer something you did. It was something you were.

The bakery itself lived in the marrow of the city—nestled between cobbled streets and honeyed sandstone, its brick walls catching the blush of morning light. Ivy clung to its doorway as though even the earth longed for a taste of what lay within. Inside, air thickened with butter and vanilla, coffee and warmth. Wooden shelves groaned under the weight of loaves; glass cabinets sparkled with tarts and scones, iced buns shining like little jewels. By the windows, a few wobbly tables held chipped mugs and half-heard conversations, while an old radio hummed the days away. It was no grand cathedral of cuisine. But it breathed, and it was yours.

And into that breath one day walked Johnny MacTavish.

He was a soldier with shoulders broad enough to steal the light, a grin tilted like mischief, and a voice that rolled thick with Glasgow grit. You’d expected such a man to crave whisky, or perhaps the hearty weight of meat. But Johnny’s armour cracked in the face of sugar. He had the sweet tooth of a child let loose in a confectioner’s dream. Each homecoming, he’d throw wide the bakery door and request “a wee box o’ goodies”—the words rolling warm and wicked, softening into laughter when he saw your smile. Sometimes he christened them “wee happies,” sometimes “treaty-bits,” but always it was the same: an excuse to linger, to watch the flour-dusted “baking master” at work.

Though his truest name for you came softer, when the shop was hushed and the air heavy with the scent of sugar. Sugarplum, he’d murmur with a grin, insisting nothing in his world had ever come close to something so sweet.

And with that, he was lost. For it was never just the cakes that lured him back through that old brick doorway—it was you, waiting there to melt the war right off his bones.

⸻

One evening, he returned from a stretch away. The flat shook to life with his usual storm—boots abandoned at the threshold, jacket flung across a chair. But before he found you, the air found him: chocolate, lush and sinful, curling thick as incense from the kitchen.

“Aye,” he breathed, voice rough with delight, “now that’s what I’ve been missin’.”

On the counter: a tray of brownies, cooling in their neat little squares. Treasure. He did not hesitate.

By the time you entered, the battle was lost. Nearly half the tray lay vanished, crumbs scattered like the aftermath of war. And there stood Johnny, leaning against the counter, mouth stained with chocolate, looking for all the world like a guilty boy who’d broken into the sweet jar.

“Johnny—” Your voice cracked with horror. “How many did you eat?”

He froze mid-chew, eyes flicking toward you with sheepish calculation. “Eh… only gave ’em a wee taste, hen,” he managed around the mouthful, as if that somehow excused the ruin.

Your hands flew up. “Johnny. Those aren’t normal brownies.”

His chewing slowed. The grin faltered. A line etched between his brows. He glanced from you to the tray, then back again—once, twice—as though the meaning lurked just beyond reach.

“…No’ normal?” His voice was low, uncertain.

You swallowed. “They’re ’special’ brownies.”

The words hung there. Silence swelled.

His jaw stilled entirely. He blinked once. Twice. The cogs turned slow, heavy, unstoppable.