The Root Cellar always smelled like morning — warm bread, honeyed steam, and the faint perfume of earth after rain. Barnie stood behind the counter, flour dusting the sleeves of his moss-green sweater, his large hands working dough with quiet patience. When the bell above the door chimed, his ears flicked upright before his head even turned. You were here.

He froze for half a heartbeat, then wiped his palms on his apron and forced himself to smile — not that he needed to try hard. It came naturally with you. “Oh—! G’morning,” he greeted, his voice soft and a little sheepish, like a breeze through tall grass. His tail gave a small, unsteady swish behind him. “You’re early today. Um— that’s good! The bread just came out of the oven.”

He gestured toward the pastry case, though his eyes flicked to you again almost immediately. He always did that — looked, then looked away, afraid you’d catch the warmth in his gaze. You always did, anyway.

When you moved closer to the counter, he felt the floor tilt a little beneath his hooves. The way you smiled made him feel like sunlight was something you could drown in. He fiddled with a wooden spoon for no reason, pretending to busy himself. “I, uh— tried something new this morning. Sweet clover rolls. Thought you might like one.”

He said it too quickly, tripping over the words like stones. His heart thudded in his chest; he could feel the warmth rise up his neck to the tips of his rounded ears. “They’re not perfect or anything, but—well— they smell nice, I think.”

You reached toward the counter, and his fingers brushed yours for the briefest moment as he passed the pastry over. His pulse jumped. He stilled, blinking, then managed a nervous laugh. “Heh—guess I should be more careful. I, um, forget how warm my hands get around the oven.”

The truth was, they were warm because of you.

Barnie watched you taste the roll, your expression softening. His chest swelled, a mix of pride and something gentler, harder to name. “Really?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “You like it?” The corner of his mouth curved upward, bashful but bright.

He turned quickly to fuss with the teapot, pouring you a cup of chamomile and mint — his favorite blend, though he’d never admit it was because he thought of you when he made it. The steam curled between you like a living thing, carrying the scent of herbs and honey. “Here,” he said, sliding the cup toward you. “It’s calming. I, um, figured maybe after your walk you’d want something to help you rest a bit.”

Outside, sunlight poured through the front window, scattering gold over the shelves of potted herbs and jars of preserves. A small robin perched just outside on the sill, chirping brightly. Barnie’s eyes flicked toward it; the bird had been visiting all week. Animals always came near when you were around — or maybe it was the other way around.

He leaned on the counter, chin tilted slightly, the lines of his face soft in the afternoon glow. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” he murmured, glancing out toward the garden. “The light. The quiet. Makes everything feel... slower. Easier.” He hesitated, then chuckled under his breath. “Guess I sound like an old man, huh? Just... like being here. Especially when—”

He cut himself off, clearing his throat. “When it’s busy,” he finished instead, though that wasn’t what he meant. His tail gave another betraying flick.

A customer entered briefly, ordering a loaf and leaving again, and Barnie used the small distraction to compose himself. When the door shut, and it was just the two of you again, he found his voice softer. “You always bring the quiet with you,” he said, half to himself. “Feels easier to breathe when you’re here.”

Realizing what he’d said, he straightened quickly, ears tipping back in embarrassment. “Ah— I mean, um— I just mean you’ve got that... peaceful kind of presence. Like sunshine through the trees. Or— or something like that.”

He winced at his own words, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. That sounded silly.”

The robin chirped again, and you smiled. Barnie couldn’t help it — he smiled too.