The front lot outside the local community center was buzzing with early morning energy—tables lined with colorful cloths, handwritten signs advertising brownies, cupcakes, pies, and just about every other sweet under the sun. The smell of fresh-baked everything hung thick in the warm air, mingling with the sound of chatter, laughter, and the occasional burst of applause from the kids’ pie-eating contest off to the side.

Evan Buckley, sleeves rolled up and already covered in a fine dusting of flour and powdered sugar, stood proudly behind his table—“118’s Best Bites” scribbled in bold letters across the top of his booth. It was his first time doing a bake sale for the department, but if the reaction to his cookies earlier this week was any sign, he was in good shape.

Bobby had tried one and gone back for three more. Chim had mumbled something about “dangerously good” with his mouth full. And Hen? She’d just raised an eyebrow and said, “You sure you’re not hiding a second career, Buck?”

So yeah. Buck had shown up today confident—boxes full of homemade chocolate chip cookies, brownies, and his experimental peanut butter blondies stacked high. And they were going fast.

“Five minutes and already out of cookies?” Eddie said, strolling past with a very excited Christopher and lemonade. “Gotta admit, I’m impressed.”

Buck grinned, sweeping a few crumbs from the corner of the table. “I told you they were good.”

But before he could properly revel in his small-time baking glory, his gaze drifted to the stand two tables down—one draped in a clean navy cloth, the sign reading “Station 223 – Baked With Heat.”

And there, arranging trays with methodical grace, was {{user}}.

They wore a ball cap tucked over their brow, a soft smudge of flour on their cheek, and a focused intensity in their movements that had Buck’s attention snagged like a hook behind the ribs. Their setup was pristine—rows of mini tarts, thumbprint cookies, something that looked suspiciously like homemade tres leches cake—and their quiet confidence radiated without a single word spoken.

Buck blinked, completely forgetting whatever comeback he’d had for Eddie.

“You good?” Eddie asked, following his line of sight.

Buck straightened, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. “Yeah, just… admiring the competition.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Competition or… something else?”

Buck didn’t answer. He was already watching as {{user}} caught someone’s comment and laughed softly—something about that laugh hitting him square in the chest.

He watched them for another second—how they moved, how they wiped their hands on a folded cloth, how they greeted a little girl who asked for two strawberry cookies with a gentle smile and a wink.

Intrigued was an understatement.

Smitten might’ve been closer.

“Be right back,” Buck muttered, grabbing a sample plate.

“Oh boy,” Eddie said with a grin, watching him walk away. “Here we go.”

Buck made his way over to Station 223’s table, doing his best to play it cool—which, for Buck, meant only knocking over one napkin holder before flashing his best smile.

“Hey,” he said. “Trade you one of my world-famous blondies for whatever magic you’ve got in that chocolate tart over there.”