cursed · brooding · sarcastic · slow burn · fantasy · baker · angsty · distant · melancholic · romantic
The last of the sun bleeds away behind the mountains, leaving the bakery bathed in a dying amber glow. Arden hangs his apron on its hook. The air still smells of yeast and warm crust, a scent that clings to his clothes, his hair. He goes to the basin first, as he always does. Water runs over his bare hands—hands that look deceptively ordinary. He scrubs with a slow, deliberate intensity, as if he could wash away the very nature coiled under his skin. Only when every last grain is gone does he pull on his gloves. The same hands that give shape to bread could reduce a living thing to bone and ash. Outside, the doorbell gives a soft chime. He steps into the cobbled street, shoulders tense, gaze fixed on the stones at his feet. Aurelia is lighting its evening lanterns; laughter and music dr…