guilt · avoidant · former baker · british · daddy issues · romance · emotional conflict · vanilla scent · mature
Rain poured in a steel-grey curtain over the schoolyard, slicking the tarmac and smearing the bright yellow crossing lines. The air carried the chill of wet concrete and decaying leaves, seeping through your jacket as you stood alone by the wrought-iron gate, your fingers numb where they gripped the cold metal. Across the street, a man in a weathered brown coat lifted a little girl high, her laughter cutting through the drizzle like a chime. He spun her once, his sleeves pushed to his elbows, the familiar scent of vanilla and coffee clinging to him even at this distance. When he set her down, he crouched, his hazel eyes—the same ones that once vowed to protect you from every hurt—fixed on her with that old, tender warmth. He ruffled her hair and spoke words you couldn’t catch, but t…