The bell over the bakery door jingled with that delicate ding only French coastal shops seemed capable of producing, like wind chimes made of sugar. She hadn't planned to walk in. She came ashore strictly for business, fish, spices, dried herbs, grains, whatever she could hoard before the world lost its mind.
Jin was back at the docks handling logistics with the fishermen, negotiating, planning, supervising the loading with that alert, disciplined calm that made him look like a general even in a simple linen shirt. She'd sent him off because he thrived on duty, and she, she wanted to take a breath.
Just a breath.
But then something drifted by her nose as she walked down the cobblestone street, a warm, buttery smell that wrapped around her like silk. Fresh pastry. Vanilla. Caramelized sugar. A hint of citrus.
Her footsteps changed direction before her brain issued the order.
Whoever made that, I want them.
Not because they were young, not because they were attractive. She didn't know. She just wanted that level of skill, the precision, the artistry, the audacity to produce something this perfect before the world ended.
Probably a tiny old lady, she thought. Maybe with a crooked smile and flour on her hands. She pictured her with soft glasses sliding down her nose, humming while kneading dough with the ease of decades.
It wasn't a want.
It was a need.
So she pushed through the bakery door, and the tiny bell sang.
The shop was small but immaculate. Cream-colored walls. Floating shelves lined with pastries so perfect they looked unreal, glossy pastries with glass-like glaze, delicate cakes sculpted rather than baked, bread formed with artistry that almost made her feel disrespectful breathing near it.
It smelled like heaven,
and heartbreak.
Then she saw him.
Behind the counter stood a man with flour dusted across his cheek like a smudge of innocence. Blonde curls fell around his face in soft waves, and his brown eyes snapped up the moment she entered.
He froze.
Like he'd been waiting.
Like the bell was a signal just for him.
His head tilted, curiosity spilling across his features, and a grin, stupid, silly, unbelievably cute, stretched across his face. The kind of expression chibi characters make in anime when they spot someone they adore.
Her brows arched.
He kept smiling like he didn't notice gravity or shame.
"Bonjour," he said, voice warm, soft, bright enough to be dangerous.
She scanned him, instinctively, efficiently. Slender build. Toned hands. Knife calluses. Fast reflexes despite the clumsy aura. A natural artist. A mind that lived in two different rooms at once.
And a heart that hadn't stopped shining since he saw her.
"You made all this?" she asked, nodding toward the pastries.
His chest puffed adorably.
"Yes!" He rushed around the counter with a plate suddenly in hand, she didn't see him move, which told her all she needed to know about his skill. "Try this. Please. Actually, no, not please."
He thrust the plate forward dramatically.
"No. You are tasting."
She blinked. Slowly.
He grinned harder.
She took the pastry because resisting would've taken more energy than giving in. The moment it touched her tongue, her eyes half-closed.
Crisp edges.
Airy center.
The flavor melted, elegant and clean, as if the pastry carried sunlight inside it.
She opened her eyes and found him watching her like she was the finale of some festival.
"That's…" she began.
"Yes?" he leaned forward.
"Very good," she finished.
He lit up like a lantern festival.
Then, with a tiny dramatic bow and a voice dipped in honey, he added,
"By the way, my name is Emil, but you may call me,"
He winked.
"Mon bébé."
She actually coughed, pastry nearly betraying her. Her mind raced, Did he just, no, impossible.
His smile only widened like he'd just offered her a free rose, not a nickname bold enough to make the air warm.
She steadied the plate. "I don't call strangers 'my baby.'"
He gasped softly, hand to chest, scandalized in the cutest possible way. "Ah. Then we must not remain strangers."
She had to fight a smile. Hard.
What a ridiculous man.
What a skilled man.
What a useful man.
Her instincts, which came from decades of war, death, and strategy, didn't just whisper. They roared.
This one.
This one belongs with me.
Not romantically yet, not even emotionally, but as part of her fortress. Her family. Her future.
Because behind that grin, she sensed a sharpness worth respecting.
But she didn't comment on it.
Not yet.
Instead, she walked along the display counter, scanning pastries with the intensity of someone choosing soldiers for battle. If he can work this fast under pressure, I can use him for more than just pastries.
"You baked all of these today?" she asked.
"Every morning," he said proudly. "I don't sleep much. Baking helps."
"And you run this place alone?"
"Yes! Though my adoptive family has a restaurant in town. I help there too. I'm very," He paused, searching for a word. "Busy. But happy. And now, happier."
He said it looking directly at her.
Unashamed.
Unfiltered.
Like he'd imprinted already.
She ignored the warmth in her chest. It was the pastry. Obviously.
"I'll take everything," she said casually.
He blinked. "Everything, like everything everything?"
"Yes."
He hurried behind the counter in a flurry of motion, collecting pastries with the excitement of a puppy given a job.
She leaned back and watched him.
Cute.
Talented.
He didn't know it yet, but she had already chosen him.
And fate, apparently, had chosen her first.
She walked toward the counter and he looked up instantly, eyes bright.
"Will you come back?" he asked.
"Probably," she replied.
He lit up again.
Inside, Emil stepped closer and whispered with a shy boldness only he could pull off,
"Next time, I will bake something special, for you."
She didn't promise anything.
She didn't need to.
They both already knew she'd be back.
---
Author's Note — This chapter is all thanks to Users CrystalDager and DaoistUWfgxP thank you so much...
Survival Guide #7: Electricity Gone? Stay Cute
"Power's out? Step away from the fridge, hero. Don't open it unless you're ready to eat everything in it like a raccoon on a mission. Preserve cold, preserve sanity, preserve that yogurt you paid too much money for."