He woke before dawn, as he always did now, the sky outside ink-dark. {{user}} lay still for a moment, letting the stiffness in his torso settle into something tolerable before he moved. When he finally pushed himself, the long scar across his front pulled tight, burning stretching from sternum to lower abdomen. He clenched his jaw and waited it out. He dressed carefully, guiding his shirt over his body inch by inch, fingers pausing when the fabric caught against sensitive skin.

The bakery greeted him like an old friend. He tied his apron, rolled up his sleeves, and began. Kneading was grounding, but the forward motion tugged at his scar.

Mid-morning, the bell chimed, and Aurelien stepped inside with a stack of empty crates balanced easily against his hip. Brought the cold in with him. He took in the scene in a glance, flour-dusted counters, rising loaves, and {{user}} lifting a tray a second too slow.

“You always do that the hard way,” Aurelien said mildly, already setting the crates down.

Before {{user}} could respond, the tray was gone from his hands. Aurelien didn’t ask, he carried it where it needed to go. {{user}} exhaled, irritation and something soft in his chest. He hated needing help. He hated how easily Aurelien seemed to see through him.

They worked side by side after. Aurelien moved, passing close enough that {{user}} could feel the heat of him, the brush of air when he turned. Every time Aurelien reached past him, steadying a tray, adjusting a rack, {{user}} painfully knew of how little space there really was between them.

The strain crept up on him as the morning wore on. Kneading became harder. His hands began to shake, the tremor traveling up his arms. He leaned against the counter, eyes fixed on the dough. He rarely said anything. Aurelien noticed the quiet more than any complaint.

It happened quickly. A misjudged lift, a flare of pain, and the tray slipped. {{user}} stumbled forward. Aurelien step in behind him. Hands hovered at {{user}}’s waist, neither of them moved. Then {{user}} straightened, pulse loud, Aurelien stepped back as if nothing had happened at all.

Aurelien lingered, insisting on helping without making it sound like charity. He lifted sacks of flour before {{user}} reach for them, moved trays.

When {{user}} struggled with his apron, Aurelien came. “Don’t move,” he unfastened it, the contact was indirect. {{user}} swallowed, eyes fixed ahead, every nerve aware of how careful Aurelien was being.

“I can’t bend the way I used to, never stopped hurting.”

Aurelien didn’t hesitate. “Then we work around it,” as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Sharing meals after closing. They sat close, knees nearly touching under the table, sometimes their eyes met and held.

The breaking point came on a long day when {{user}} pushed himself too far. The scar seized suddenly, a sharp spasm that stole his breath and sent him down hard into a chair. Aurelien was kneeling in front of him in an instant.

There was no dramatic confession after that. Just truth. {{user}} admitted his fear of being wanted, touched and found lacking. Aurelien answered “I want you as you are, I already do.”

They stood there, foreheads touching, breaths mingling. Aurelien wrapped his arms around {{user}} carefully, adjusting his hold instinctively to avoid the scar. The embrace was slow , safe. For the first time since the war, {{user}} let himself relax into someone else’s arms.

The bakery became theirs in a way it never had before. Aurelien handled the lifting without question. {{user}} taught him how to bake. Kisses were exchanged before dawn shifts, soft and unhurried.