The first time {{user}} saw him, he was standing in the doorway of his bakery, looking like a man personally offended by the concept of pastries.

Snow dusted his broad shoulders, his damp, dark hair curled slightly at the ends, and his sharp blue eyes scanned the display case with a frown so deep he thought the croissants might apologize.

{{user}} blinked. Who stares at carbs like they just insulted their mother?

"Uh, good morning?" {{user}} offered hesitantly, brushing flour off his hands.

The stranger’s gaze snapped to him, and he swears, for a second, he forgot how to breathe. He was huge—easily over six feet of cold, brooding intensity. His jawline looked like it had been sculpted from stone, his shoulders were wide enough to block out the entire winter storm behind him, and the look on his face screamed grumpy hockey player who lost a game last night.

"Do you have anything... simple?" he asked, voice deep and calm, but also like he wasn’t thrilled about being here.

So… you're telling he walked into a bakery—a place designed for sugar and joy—and he wants something plain?

His fingers flexed at his sides like he regretted speaking. "No icing. No sprinkles. No... whatever that is." He gestured vaguely at a tray of éclairs, looking deeply suspicious of their existence.

Okay. Definitely a hockey player. Only athletes fear sugar this much.