The morning rush had faded into the hum of kneading and the low hiss of the ovens. Sunlight stretched through the front windows of the bakery "La Miette d’Or", painting the flour-dusted air gold. Antoine Dupont stood at the back, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted white, the scent of fresh brioche and caramelized butter clinging to him like another skin.

He was always there, in the quiet half-light of the bakery’s kitchen, shaping loaves, filling croissants, listening to the muffled chatter of customers beyond the counter. The world up front wasn’t for him. He preferred the dough, the rhythm, the work.

Except when you came in.

Every morning at nearly the same time, the bell over the door would chime, and there you were, kind, voice bright or tired, hands always tucked into your coat while you looked for a coin. You’d order the same thing: one almond croissant, one cup of coffee, light sugar, extra milk.

Antoine pretended not to notice. He’d stay behind the door that separated the kitchen from the counter, heart tight in his chest, pretending to focus on the next batch of baguettes while listening for your laugh with the apprentice. Sometimes he’d steal a glance through the narrow passage, through the steam, and feel his chest ache in the most bewildering way.

You were not supposed to notice him. You were kind and beautiful. And he was… well, Antoine Dupont. Big, quiet, awkward. Nose too long, hands too rough. The kind of man people thanked for the bread but never remembered the name of.

But when you fell ill, when your usual order sat unclaimed for three mornings in a row, he noticed. And something in him couldn’t bear it. So one evening, after closing, he wrapped your usual in parchment, coffee and honey in a jar with the bakery's etiquette, tucked it into a basket, and left it at your door. The note was short, the handwriting careful:

“Rest. The world will wait. — A friend.”

He didn't even think about his name engraved on the basket.

He told himself it was nothing. That you wouldn’t care that much, and it would simply make you smile. But that small act had undone his quiet world. Because now you were standing here, in the front of the shop, asking for him.

“Someone asked for the owner, sir” the young apprentice called.

Antoine froze mid-step, a loaf still warm in his hands. For a heartbeat, he thought about hiding and pretending he wasn’t there, letting someone else answer. But that would be cowardice. And somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to deny you anything.

So he wiped his hands on his apron, steadied his breath, and stepped out from the back.

He was taller than you expected, broad-shouldered beneath his simple linen shirt, with blonde hair pulled back lazily. His expression was serious, but his eyes, a deep blue, soft and shy — betrayed something gentler.

“I’m Antoine Dupont,” he said, voice low, a touch rough like he wasn’t used to using it much. “The owner.”

He hesitated, searching your face, his palms pressing nervously into the flour-streaked apron. “Was there… a problem with the order?” he asked, quiet but earnest. “Or something I can help you with?”

The room smelled of butter and sugar and something unspoken. For once, he wasn’t hidden behind ovens and shadows, it felt so bright.

Because you were here, maybe not searching for the man who’d left you warmth on a cold night, but you were here. And though he’d spent years mastering patience, Antoine Dupont had never felt so close to breaking.