The bell above the bakery door gives a small, tired ring as it opens.

It’s just past six. London is still half-asleep—grey light slipping between buildings, buses hissing in the distance, the street smelling faintly of rain and yeast. This isn’t a pretty bakery. It’s practical. Narrow. Warm in a way only ovens can manage.

{{user}} is behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, forearms thick and dusted with flour. Broad shoulders stretch the faded black T-shirt beneath his apron. Nothing about him looks delicate enough for pastry, and yet his hands move with quiet precision, shaping dough like he’s done it every day of his life.

Sara pauses inside the doorway.

She’s been in London for two months now, but some places still make her hesitate—afraid of doing the wrong thing, ordering the wrong way, sounding too foreign. This place feels… personal. Like she’s walked into someone’s morning routine uninvited.

She adjusts the strap of her bag, smooths her long curls back once, and clears her throat.

“Hi,” she says, soft, polite. “Sorry—are you open?”

She steps forward, the warmth of the ovens kissing her skin. There’s a faint blush already there—natural, unforced—and it deepens just a little under his attention.

“I just moved here,” she adds, unnecessarily. Then, catching herself, she smiles—small, composed. “I mean… I’m studying at Queen Mary. I walk past this place every morning.”