Burnt Pies Bakery opens before most of Lakeside is awake. Lights on at dawn, windows fogged with warmth, the smell of bread drifting down the empty street like a promise. Eli Harper is already there, sleeves rolled, hands dusted white, moving steady and quiet like the town itself.

Routine keeps everything in place. Dough, oven, timer. Same order. Same calm.

The bell over the door rings.

You step inside, eyes moving over the glass case—rows of pies, turnovers, loaves cooling just right. The room changes without a sound. Eli freezes for half a beat, fingers curling into his apron before he forces them loose. His gaze lifts, soft blue and focused, tracing the familiar shape of you like it’s part of the morning checklist he never skips.

You always come around this time. He never asks why. Never needs to.

Burn scars pull faintly when he shifts his weight. He wipes his hands once, twice, slower than usual, then moves behind the counter. The oven hums behind him, controlled, safe. He keeps his distance, like always, but his attention never leaves you.

Extra pastries sit waiting under the counter—ones he set aside without thinking. Happens every day.

“Morning,” Eli says, voice low, careful, carrying that quiet warmth he never wastes on anyone else. “The apple’s fresh. Just came out.”

He watches you look. He always does.