Page 84 of Knot Baked Out For This
Enough.
I check the clock. 6:45. She'll be at the bakery by now, probably elbow-deep in dough, humming something while she works. The thought of her there, creating things that make people happy, makes something in my chest go tight and warm.
Just go see her. Stop being a coward.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm walking across the street. The October morning is crisp, fog rolling through downtown like a horror movie that got lost. The bakery windowsglow warm against the grey, and I can see her silhouette moving in the kitchen.
I knock, probably too loud for this early, but she appears at the door with flour already in her auburn hair and a smile that makes my knees weak.
Pathetic. You're absolutely pathetic.
"Rowan? You're early. Even for you."
"Couldn't sleep," I admit, following her inside where warmth and sweetness assault my senses. "Thought I'd see if you needed... anything."
Smooth. Very specific. Definitely not desperate.
She's humming as she returns to her work station, and I recognize the tune with a mix of horror and fondness.
"Is that 'Monster Mash'?"
She freezes mid-knead. "No."
"It's definitely 'Monster Mash.'"
"It's October. Seasonal humming is encouraged."
"It's been stuck in your head since Levi sang it, hasn't it?"
Her face goes pink. "He ruined that song forever. Now it's just associated with basement panic and terrible singing."
She's kneading dough with the kind of violence usually reserved for mortal enemies, flour clouding around her hands. Her hair is piled on her head in what she probably thinks is a messy bun but looks more like a bird's nest that got ambitious. There's what appears to be chocolate on her cheek.
She's fucking perfect.
This. This is what I want.
The domesticity of it hits like a physical blow. Mornings with her, the smell of baking bread, her voice filling my space. Coming home to flour in her hair and frosting on her fingers. Building something real and solid and?—
"You're staring," she says without looking up.
"You have chocolate on your face."
"Where?" She swipes at the wrong cheek, making it worse.
"Here, let me—" I reach over, thumb brushing her cheekbone, and we both freeze.
Her eyes are more green than brown in this light, flecked with gold that catches the kitchen fluorescents. Her scent spikes—vanilla and cinnamon and that underneath note of want that makes my Alpha brain short-circuit.
"Got it," I manage, voice rougher than intended.
"Thanks," she whispers, then shakes herself. "Do you want anything to eat?"
"Only if you're joining me."
"It's early, before the shop opens, and I haven't—" Her stomach chooses that moment to growl like an angry bear.
Her face goes crimson. "That was?—"
