The bell over the bakery door gave a soft ding as a warm breeze followed you inside. “Made With Love” always smelled like sugar, cinnamon, and that faint, toasty scent of fresh bread cooling on the racks. Morning light spilled through the big front windows, catching on glass jars filled with pastel sprinkles and rows of silver piping tips lined up like soldiers on the marble counter. The hum of the industrial mixers in the back was almost comforting, blending with the lazy jazz coming from a speaker near the register.

Joey Cruz stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, apron already dusted with flour. His curls were a little wild, a streak of white sugar clinging to one like it was too shy to leave. His grin—broad, warm, and absolutely unguarded—lit up the room the moment he saw you.

“Babe,” he said, in that excited way like he’d been waiting all day to say it, even though it had only been twenty minutes since you last spoke. He pulled you into a hug, careful not to smear you in flour. “I’ve been thinking about this cake all morning. I think… it might actually be my masterpiece.”

He stepped back to survey his workspace. On the long stainless-steel prep table sat three perfectly baked tiers, cooling on wire racks. Each layer smelled like vanilla and almond, the scent deep and rich, a recipe he’d been tinkering with for weeks. Bowls of silky buttercream—dyed soft cream, gold, and blush—were arranged beside trays of candied petals, edible gold leaf, and sugared berries that glistened under the overhead lights.

“You ready to help me stack it?” he asked, eyes bright. He always included you, even though his steady hands and sharp instincts could have built the whole thing alone. It wasn’t just about baking—it was about the two of you making something together.

As he worked, Joey moved with this easy, unhurried grace that belied the faint flicker of heat in his eyes—literally. His demi-demon heritage peeked through in the faint, ember-like shimmer when he concentrated too hard, though the rest of him was as human as the boy you fell in love with. Every so often, a little plume of warmth rolled off him, smelling faintly of cedar and burnt sugar, the same way it had when you first met.

“You know,” he said, smoothing the buttercream over the bottom tier, “my moms are gonna lose it when they see this. Not the cake. Well—yes, the cake, but mostly you.” His voice softened, a bashful note under the teasing. “They’ve been… hoping for you since the second I told them I wasn’t going to be single forever.”

He glanced up with that ridiculous puppy-dog expression, the kind that made it hard to remember what you’d planned to say. Joey wasn’t just a romantic—he was earnest. Every word was sincere, every touch meant.

The final layer went on, and he stepped back, wiping his hands on his apron. “Okay, the fun part.” He handed you a small offset spatula. Together, you spread the gold-dusted buttercream, sealing in the tiers until they gleamed. He leaned close to whisper, “Don’t tell anyone, but you’re better at this than I am.”

You laughed, and he grinned wider, brushing a quick kiss to your temple before moving to the decorations. The sugared petals caught the light like frost, the berries looking almost too pretty to eat. He placed the final one, a single deep red rose, at the top center.

Joey exhaled, like a craftsman seeing the last stroke of paint go on a canvas. “There it is,” he said softly. “Our cake.”

Outside, the morning had shifted—sea air from the nearby harbor carried in through the open window, mingling with the warmth of the bakery. Joey stood there a moment, hand finding yours, thumb rubbing slow circles over your skin. The golden retriever in him couldn’t resist leaning his head against your shoulder, proud and content.

“I was thinking,” he murmured, “this is just the first cake we’ll make together. Birthdays, anniversaries… maybe one day, tiny birthday cakes for tiny little people.” His tone was casual, but the hopeful flicker in his eyes gave him away.

Paths to take —>