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The first time Est steps into the bakery, it’s because he’s curious.
He’s walked past it countless times, nestled between the little florist with tangled ivy in the windows and the secondhand bookstore that always seems to smell like old paper and dust. But today, with the crisp autumn air sharp against his skin and a rare pocket of free time in his schedule, he finally lets himself pause.
The bell chimes softly as he steps inside. Warmth greets him instantly, wrapping around him like a well-worn blanket. The scent of fresh bread, cinnamon, and vanilla lingers in the air, cutting through the fading chill of late November.
Behind the counter, a man with dark hair and rolled-up sleeves moves with quiet precision, carefully arranging golden croissants onto a display. There’s a calm efficiency to him—unrushed but deliberate, like he knows the weight of every motion, the necessity of every pause.
Est watches, momentarily entranced.
The man looks up. His eyes, a deep brown, flick over Est quickly before he offers a simple, “I’ll be right with you.”
His voice is smooth, low, a quiet kind of warm.
Est hums, nodding, and steps forward, glancing at the neat rows of pastries under the glass. He doesn’t need anything, not really. He’s always been more of a coffee drinker, and sweet things aren’t usually his weakness. But something about the way this place feels—the warmth, the quiet hum of soft music playing in the background, the effortless way the man moves—keeps him rooted in place.
When the man finally approaches, Est glances at his name tag. William. It suits him. Simple, steady.
“What’s your best seller?” Est asks.
William studies him for a moment, as if measuring his answer. Then he turns slightly, glancing toward a tray filled with golden, sugar-dusted pastries. “The honey brioche,” he says. “Light, just the right amount of sweet.”
Est considers. “I’ll take one, then.”
William nods, moving to grab a piece, wrapping it in parchment with practiced ease. As he hands it over, his fingers brush Est’s lightly—a fleeting touch, nothing intentional, but it leaves a whisper of warmth behind.
“That’ll be—”
Before he can finish, Est puts down $20 note, “Keep the change.”
William raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment.
Est lingers for just a second longer than necessary before turning toward the door. He’s nearly out when William calls after him.
“What’s your name?”
Est hesitates, then glances over his shoulder. “Est.”
Then the bell chimes again, and he’s gone.
*********************************************
It becomes a habit—one that sneaks up on Est before he even realizes it.
At first, it’s nothing. Just an occasional visit when his schedule allows, when meetings run short or when he needs a break from the endless cycle of emails and deadlines.
But then, he starts making time.
He tells himself it’s because of the coffee. And maybe it is, in part—William makes an excellent cappuccino, the kind with delicate foam art, the perfect ratio of bitter to smooth. But Est isn’t naive enough to believe that’s the only reason.
It’s the way the bakery feels, like a pocket of warmth carved out from the rest of the world. It’s the way William moves, steady and sure, always in control but never rushed. It’s the way he greets Est with a quiet familiarity, slipping into a routine that neither of them ever acknowledged out loud.
Some days, Est works from a table by the window, laptop open, emails filtering in faster than he can reply. William never interrupts, but sometimes, without being asked, a fresh pastry or a second cup of coffee will appear beside him. No words, no expectation—just something left behind, as if to say, stay a little longer.
And Est does.
*********************************************
William doesn’t ask questions. Not about Est’s work, not about his life outside the bakery, not about why he keeps coming back.
But Est is curious.
He learns things in pieces, in the quiet moments between customers or when the shop is winding down for the night.
William used to work in restaurants—high-end ones, the kind where the pressure is suffocating, where perfection is the bare minimum. He doesn’t talk about it much, but Est picks up on the little things: the way his hands are always moving, the sharp precision in how he folds dough, the way he never lets anything sit out of place for too long.
The bakery is different. It’s slower, more deliberate. William chose it on purpose, after years of kitchens that burned through chefs like kindling.
“It’s nice,” he says one evening, when Est is still lingering past closing, watching as William kneads dough with practiced ease. “Making something that people enjoy. No expectations, no ego—just good food.”
Est, who has spent years in boardrooms, tangled in politics and power plays, understands more than he lets on.
“Sounds peaceful,” he muses.
William huffs a quiet laugh. “Some days.”
The words are simple, but there’s something about the way he says them that lingers.
*********************************************
It happens on a Tuesday.
The shop is quiet, caught in that rare, in-between hour where the morning rush has faded, but the afternoon crowd has yet to arrive. The air outside is cold, a soft drizzle painting the bakery windows with streaks of silver, but inside, warmth lingers, the scent of fresh bread curling around Est like an embrace.
He’s seated at his usual table, laptop open, though he hasn’t typed a word in nearly ten minutes. Instead, his attention keeps drifting—toward the counter, toward William.
He’s watched him a hundred times before, but today, there’s something different about it.
William moves with quiet efficiency, rolling dough with a careful, practiced touch. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, forearms dusted with flour. His dark hair is slightly tousled, likely from running a hand through it too many times, and a smudge of sugar lingers on his cheekbone, unnoticed.
Est should look away. Should focus on his work.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he stands, crossing the small space between them.
“Hard at work?” he asks, voice light.
William glances up, raising a brow. “You’re one to talk. I think I’ve seen you stare at that blank document for half an hour.”
Est huffs a laugh, leaning slightly against the counter. “It’s been ten minutes, at most.”
“Sure.” William smirks, but there’s no real bite to it.
Est watches as he resumes his work, rolling the dough, fingers pressing into it with steady precision. There’s something about it—about the way William treats it with care, about the way his hands are always moving, always creating—that makes Est hesitate.
And then, before he even thinks about it, he reaches out.
There’s a streak of flour on William’s cheek, faint but visible. Est brushes it away with the pad of his thumb, his touch lingering just a second too long.
William stills.
The space between them shrinks, the air thickening like the moment before rain.
Est watches as William’s eyes flicker—down, then up—like he’s searching for something in Est’s expression. For what, Est isn’t sure.
His hand falls away, but the moment lingers.
William exhales, slow. “You—”
Then the bell above the door chimes, and the moment snaps, breaking like the surface of a too-still lake.
A customer walks in, shaking the rain from their coat, and William steps back, slipping seamlessly into his role, greeting them with a practiced ease.
Est watches him for a second longer before retreating to his seat, his untouched laptop waiting for him.
He should get back to work. Should stop thinking about the way William’s skin felt warm under his touch, the way he had looked at him just before the moment was lost.
But he knows, deep down—
He’s already lost the battle.
*********************************************
Winter fades into spring, but Est barely notices the passing of time.
He keeps coming back to the bakery, his visits no longer dictated by convenience but by something else—something unnamed, something that keeps tugging him back through the door each time he thinks about staying away.
William never questions it. He doesn’t ask why Est, who clearly has the means to be anywhere else, chooses to spend his evenings here, sitting at the counter long after closing, sipping coffee that’s gone lukewarm. But there’s something in the way William looks at him sometimes, something knowing, like he understands anyway.
And maybe he does.
Tonight, the bakery is quiet, the kind of silence that settles only when the world outside has finally exhaled. The last customer left over an hour ago, and now it’s just them, the hum of the oven cooling, the faint scent of caramelized sugar still clinging to the air.
Est sits on the other side of the counter, chin resting on his palm as he watches William clean up for the night. There’s something almost hypnotic about the way he moves—careful, deliberate, like every action has its place. Est has always admired precision, but with William, it’s different. It’s not just efficiency; it’s care.
“Long day?” Est asks, breaking the silence.
William doesn’t look up as he wipes down the countertop. “Always.”
Est watches him, watches the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his movements have lost some of their usual fluidity. He’s tired, Est realizes.
“You work too hard,” Est murmurs.
William lets out a soft huff of laughter, shaking his head. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
William finally looks up, his gaze settling on Est, warm and unreadable. There’s something in his eyes tonight—something softer, quieter.
Est exhales, tipping his head slightly. “You should take a break.”
William watches him for a long moment. Then, something shifts.
A decision made.
He sets the cloth aside and moves around the counter, steps unhurried but sure. When he stops in front of Est, the space between them is smaller than it’s ever been.
Est doesn’t move.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t breathe too hard. He just waits, watching as William’s eyes flicker over his face, like he’s memorizing every detail.
Then, with a slow certainty, William reaches out. His fingers brush against Est’s jaw—hesitant at first, like he’s waiting for Est to pull away. But Est doesn’t. He leans into the touch, just slightly, just enough for William to know.
That’s all it takes.
William leans in, closing the last of the space between them, and presses his lips to Est’s.
It’s slow—so slow it nearly undoes him. Warm and steady, like the first sip of coffee on a cold morning, like fresh bread straight from the oven. There’s no rush, no urgency, just quiet surety, just William.
Est exhales into the kiss, one hand curling around the edge of the counter, grounding himself. He tastes something faintly sweet—honey, maybe, or the lingering remnants of sugar from the pastries William had been making earlier.
When they part, William doesn’t move away. He stays close, forehead nearly brushing Est’s, thumb tracing an absentminded path along the curve of his jaw.
Est lets out a breath, half-laughing, half-something else. “See?” he murmurs, voice softer than he meant it to be. “Told you you should take a break.”
William huffs out a laugh of his own, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” Est says, smiling now, “here you are.”
William doesn’t deny it.
And neither of them move away.