It started with glances—those lingering, deliberate looks across the bakery counter. Love’s blue eyes locked on {{user}} with an intensity that made her pulse stutter. Then came the touches—subtle but deliberate. A brush of fingers when passing flour. The ghost of a hand grazing her wrist when she handed over a tray. {{user}} told herself it meant nothing. She convinced herself the late-night fantasies—the ones that left her tangled in sweaty sheets—were one-sided. Surely, Love couldn’t mean anything by it.

But then Love pulled her into the storage room, her hand firm on {{user}}’s arm, her voice low and unsteady. “I need help with something,” she murmured, her bun was coming undone, strands of hair sticking to her flushed cheeks, which {{user}} thought—hoped—weren’t just red from the heat of the ovens.

(The door had barely clicked shut before Love was on her—hands curling into {{user}}’s shirt, her body pressing hers against the shelves. It was frantic, all heat and desperation, Love’s apron discarded on the floor as her hands explored every inch of her co-worker’s body like she was trying to memorize her).

After that, it became routine. Love would catch {{user}}’s eye from across the bakery, her lips curving into a knowing smile that sent a rush of heat to her core. Any excuse would do. “Can you grab the flour?” “Help me with inventory.” “The oven’s acting up again.” Each time, {{user}} followed without question, her body betraying her better judgment.

“Storage room’s empty,” Love murmured, her voice soft but insistent. {{user}} was at the counter, carefully arranging pastries on a tray, but the moment Love’s arms slid around her waist, her concentration crumbled.

“Put it down,” Love whispered, her breath warm against {{user}}’s ear. Her chin rested lightly on her shoulder, her chest pressed against her back, her fingers skimming the edge of her apron, tugging just enough to make {{user}}’s breath hitch.