Chapter Text
Sugar. Butter. Flour.
Greg repeats the words like a quiet melody, a song that begins every morning before the sun rises. His fingers move with the familiarity of muscle memory as he lines the ingredients up on the counter, each one measured with care. The glass mixing bowl – his favorite, the one with faint scratches on its sides from years of use – waits patiently on the bakery’s wooden island. The surface is stained from time and sugar spills, but it’s smooth and warm under his palms. Familiar. Steady.
He pours the flour first. Always flour first. The bag shifts slightly as he tips it, and a soft cloud of powder blooms upward, catching the early morning light that spills through the high windows. Greg instinctively squeezes his eyes shut, letting the white haze drift around him. He’s learned the hard way, not to open his eyes too soon when flour is flying – flour in the eyes is one of those small, specific kinds of hell that bakers come to know.
Still, he smiles faintly as he breathes it in. Baking, to Greg, is never a chore. Even when he ends up dusted in powder like some kind of sugar-coated ghost, he wouldn’t trade it for anything else. There’s comfort in the process, a kind of peace. Every pie, every pastry, starts the same way – with this bowl, with these ingredients. But what happens next? That’s where the magic is.
He decides to bake from the heart.
Baking is supposed to be a science, people say. Exact measurements. Precision, but not for Greg. Once the essentials are in – sugar, butter, flour – he folds the recipe card in half and sets it aside. He doesn't need it anymore. What he needs is to feel the texture of the dough, to smell the warmth of cinnamon or the brightness of lemon zest, to listen to the quiet stir of batter turning thick and silky beneath a wooden spoon.
That’s how he’s always worked. With his heart.
It’s just past five in the morning, and the world outside is still sleeping. The hum of the oven is the only sound filling the kitchen. There’s a serenity in the silence that Greg has come to treasure – no ringing phones, no customers tapping on the glass with their nails asking when the next batch of almond bear claws will be ready. No one asking about the meringue puffs shaped like little chicks, because they’ve been sold out since ten yesterday.
Those puffs? Already done, cooling off to the side. Greg’s always steps ahead.
He’s structured in his own way. First come the quick bakes – the staples. The pies and puffs and turnovers that people come rushing in for the moment the bakery doors open. They’re light, fast, and always in high demand. Greg can make those with his eyes closed by now, folding the batter while something more richer and complicated is left second so Greg can give it the time it needs. While those are in the oven or cooling, Greg turns to the bigger orders: cakes for weddings, boxes of cupcakes for birthday parties, delicate tarts for school events. He thrives on the variety, on the challenge of making someone’s vision edible.
And even though those showpieces line the display shelves, they’re not the ones that disappear first. It’s the comfort pies – the ones that taste like someone’s childhood. Those are the ones Greg has to restock again and again. The comfort foods always go first.
Sugar. Butter. Flour.
He repeats it again in his head as he stirs the thickening batter, the wooden spoon scraping the bottom of the bowl in wide, slow circles. He grips it firmly – he’s had a few near misses with batter launching across the kitchen like it has its own mind, like a projectiled paintball trying to find its target. The mixture is dense today, but it’s transforming into something beautiful, something promising. The pale beige color is deepening, becoming rich and golden.
His mind wanders as he stirs, thinking ahead of what today’s special pie of the day should be. Yesterday’s was Lemon Meringue – bright, sharp, and sweet. Maybe today he’ll try something savory, or something with caramel. Then again, those blueberry tarts sold out before ten, and customers were already begging him to bring them back. He can, of course – or, maybe he can play with the idea. He smiles, maybe it’s time to bring back the deep-dish blueberry bacon pie. Knight used to love that one, always requesting it for special occasions. The memory warms him.
Greg remembers first crafting that pie in this very kitchen, back when his hands were still new to this place and the city hadn’t tasted his creations yet – when Knight followed his lifelong dream on a whim and bought a rundown tire shop. He always felt as though a place this beautiful should never be subjected to being labeled something as uninspiring as a tire shop, where the entire place smelled of rubber and burn marks. And the first thing that was ever made in this kitchen was the deep-dish blueberry bacon pie. Sweet blueberries and salty, crisp bacon layered in a deep, golden crust. It was a strange idea when Knight first proposed it before he’d bought the old tire shop, an experiment he didn’t think would even pan out.
Greg hasn’t made it in a while.
His hands pause. The bowl is nearly full now, the batter ready to be rolled out and filled. He brushes a little flour from the edge of the counter, eyes lingering on the way the morning light catches the worn corners of the bakery kitchen.
After the surgery, when the doctors told him what he’d lost – and what he’d survived – Greg didn’t know what to do with himself, the slightly renovated tire shop lying dormant in the city with no one coming to fix it up again. Greg wasn’t sure he ever wanted to go back there, he’d given up so many things after the operation, and somehow the idea of finishing those renovations and opening a bakery wasn’t something he felt like he could do now that Knight was gone.
But doing nothing with his hands, staying inside, was getting to him as the weeks passed. Walking the streets of the city wasn’t doing it for him, because at the end he always ended up in the same spot: back home on the couch listening to mellow music and drinking a cup of tea. His hands were basically useless at this point, and he didn’t like it. Gripping the air was unsatisfactory for him, he needed something tangible to touch.
So one day without warning, Greg purchased everything he needed and trekked through the city towards the unfinished renovation to finally make it how it’s supposed to be – the future bakery welcoming him back like a child seeing their parents coming home after a long day at work.
Now, this bakery is home.
And today, he thinks, it’s time to bring back that blueberry bacon pie.
Greg pauses, wooden spoon hovering over the glass bowl. The soft clink of metal against ceramic fades and another memory creeps in – sharp and sudden – his eyes locking on the bowl of batter beneath him. He doesn’t fight it, if he tries to shove the thoughts away now, they’ll return stronger – louder – right in the middle of the rush, when customers fill the bakery and flour coats the air like dust in an old western town full of cowboys and bandits, outlaws on the run. So now he lets them come. Greg lets the memories rise and crash, flooding his mind like seawater breaching the shore.
Better now than later, even if it hurts.
He sets the spoon down and lifts a hand to his neck, his fingertips brushing against the scar. The skin there is taut, overly sensitive, mapped with the rough ridges of what Greg is convinced to be barbed wire. They’re bumps that his fingers run over, barricading him from ever feeling that part of his body – ever present just as his memories are. The wound feels like it’s still there, always humming with phantom tension. The scar tissue is too tight; it will never learn how to loosen.
Some days it feels like a punishment. Other days, just proof he survived something he will never be able to explain verbally – no matter how much the doctors tried.
Greg presses gently, a habit more than anything else, but recoils just the same. It still feels wrong, foreign. Like something that doesn’t belong to him, and he supposes that his vocal chords feel the same way to him. He wonders, not for the first time, if it ever will.
The surgery had been a last resort, a desperate hope that maybe – just maybe – he’d be gifted the ability to speak. But instead, it took whatever voice he might’ve had, took the remnants and sealed them shut.
He swallows – dry, mechanical – and winces. Pain flares sharp behind his collarbone, and he braces himself against the wooden island with one hand, body stiffening. His breath catches halfway down his chest and refuses to move. His lungs flutter, struggling to expand all the way. Not panic – just that familiar tightening again. He still doesn’t have a name for it, and maybe he never will.
Greg doesn’t want to know what it is. The doctors have done all they can, giving him the truth in clinical terms: he can’t speak, and never will. That much was clear from the beginning. All the professionals give for condolences are shrugs and prescriptions for rest he tried, but ended up absolutely loathing. But communication, that was still an option. He found his own ways – one traditional, one entirely his own.
One of them is his hands.
He flexes his fingers. One twitches, then another follows.
Not now.
Greg stands still, rooted to the tile like the bowl beside him – waiting, unmoving, bracing. The moment stretches, his chest aches. But eventually it passes, dull and distant, like the echo of thunder after the rain has moved on.
He straightens, inhales shallowly – there’s work to do, and absolutely no time to dwell. His chest still hums with discomfort, but he pushes past it.
Sugar. Butter. Flour.
Greg grabs a pinch of sugar and lets it sift through his fingers, watching the grains tumble into the mix. They disappear instantly, swallowed by the flour and butter waiting below. The sweet scent rises faintly from the bowl, clinging to the air. He rubs his palms together, brushing off the last crystals, and glances towards the oven.
Still cold, the dial unmoved.
He huffs silently, a breath of amusement caught in his chest. He smiles to himself and shakes his head, always forgetting to turn the oven on. It’s quite ironic, he can remember the exact weight of a pie tin, the exact moment a crust goes from golden to overdone. But the oven, the one thing he literally needs?
Always last on the list.
Crossing the kitchen, Greg tightens the apron strings around his waist on the way. He could’ve sworn he tied them tighter earlier, but his constant movements probably loosened them. He pulls them tighter this time, knotting them with practiced ease. Staying still isn’t an option in this kitchen. He needs the motion – needs to move, roam, stretch.
Greg never gets all the ingredients at once, never lines everything up in perfect order. That will make things too efficient. Too still. He prefers the flow – the dance of it. Back and forth from pantry to counter. It keeps him grounded, and from sinking too far into himself.
Maybe forgetting to turn on the oven isn’t as clumsy as he thinks.
He sets the temperature and hears the soft click as it comes to life. Heat will come next. Familiar, steady, always reliable – unlike his own body.
He crosses to the corner of the kitchen and switches on the fan, watching as it stutters once before whirring to life, sending a slow, steady stream of air across the room. Greg lifts his chin, letting it wash over his face. The sun is just coming over the horizon, creeping through the kitchen window and casting honey-colored light across the tiled floor.
Greg lets himself breathe – really breathe – for the first time this morning.
Then he turns back to the bowl.
The spoon fits back into his hand like it was made for it. He lifts the bowl, nestling it into the bend of his elbow like something precious, like a child in need of sleep. His other hand stirs gently, coaxing the dough into form. The ingredients begin to yield, to come together. Soon he’ll have to knead it by hand. For now, the spoon does the work.
He glances down at the counter. It’ll need flur, a dusting to keep the dough from clinging once he turns it out. That step is one of his favorites – coating the surface like preparing a blank canvas. He finds peace in these little rituals.
The dough starts resisting. The spoon no longer glides; it meets friction. Greg leans into it, stirring with more focus now. It’s always fascinating how quickly batter becomes dough – how one moment of resistance signals transformation. Like it’s claiming itself.
He sets the bowl down on the left side of the counter and places the spoon next to the sugar bag, saving it for later. It’ll be useful again when he makes the blueberry filling.
Greg rolls his neck, stretching slowly. He’ll be looking down for a while now, and any motion – any relief – matters. These small moments of care, in the quiet morning light, are what get him through.
Sinking his hands into the glass bowl, Greg’s fingertips press into the soft, pliable dough. It’s still warm from the mixing, not chilled like the pre-made batches he stores for later. Those are for emergencies – when a best-seller flies off the display case and he needs a fresh tray ready fast.
But in the morning? Everything is sacred here.
In the early hours, Greg insists on starting from scratch. There’s something soothing in making it fresh, in watching ingredients going from separate parts to a unified whole. If there’s leftover dough, he folds it into the next batch – nothing wasted. Unless something’s truly gone bad, like spoiled milk or overripe fruit, everything finds a purpose.
That’s part of why the bakery does so well. The pastries aren’t frozen or artificial, they’re real – honest. Customers don’t come looking for factory-made sweets thawed out from last week. They come for whatever’s new that day, and with his rotating pie selection, Greg hasn’t had to repeat a flavor yet.
He hopes to keep that streak alive.
Scooping the dough from the bowl, Greg shifts to the center of the kitchen island and plops it onto the floured countertop. He immediately gets to work, his hands folding and pressing it with a practiced rhythm. Everything’s been cleared from the surface – save for the rolling pin – giving him room to move freely, to work the dough without interruption. Starting over wouldn’t be a disaster, but his peaceful window before the bakery opens isn’t endless. And he would rather not get broken egg shells in the dough, either.
Morning light begins to flood the kitchen fully now. Shadows shrink across the walls, revealing the faded paint that’s still here from when this place used to be a tire shop. Sunlight glints off the steel of the oven and fridge, catching Greg in the eye. He squints and turns his head just slightly, the brightness temporarily blinding him.
He doesn’t need to see for this, not really. But he likes watching.
There’s something beautiful in witnessing transformation – watching a mess of flour and butter become something delicate and golden. Something whole.
His movements are steady but intense. Kneading dough works more than just his arms – Greg pushes with his whole body, shifting onto the balls of his feet, even using his elbow to lean into it like he’s easing tension from someone’s shoulders. It’s a workout, one that often ends with splatters of filling on his cheeks and flour streaking his fur.
But those are messes Greg never minds.
As he works, he makes a mental note: check the fridge once the crust starts its blind bake. If there aren’t fresh blueberries, he’ll have to pivot from the deep-dish blueberry bacon pie. Disappointing, maybe, since he is excited to share that recipe today – one that always reminds him of Knight. Something warm. Something personal.
Something his.
He reaches for the rolling pin at the edge of the counter – but freezes when a sharp knock echoes from the front doors. Greg’s hand hovers over the wooden tool, suspended in midair.
That’s odd.
The bakery doesn’t open for another hour and a half, and Sarah won’t arrive for another hour to help him set everything up before he officially opens. So who is at the door?
Greg pulls back from the counter, wiping his hands on his apron. Flour clouds the fabric, turning the company orange gingham a pale, dusty white that camouflages into the white parts of the apron. Working back here, he never worries about staying spotless – even when he works out in the storefront at the cash register.
He presses a hand to the swinging door and nudges it open, stepping into the storefront. The soft whoosh of air conditioning kicks in above him, timed to activate with the sunrise. Cool air brushes his fur, and Greg inhales deeply, letting the familiar scent of sugar and yeast wrap around him.
As he moves towards the front, he straightens a few chairs, nudging them back into place beneath their tables. He’s always tidying – even when no one’s watching.
The bell above the door chimes softly as he opens it. Instinctively, Greg glances over his shoulder, expecting someone to step past him to enter the bakery.
Old habits.
The bell means someone is entering or leaving. Always. Even now, early in the morning, part of him wonders if he’ll turn and find a customer already browsing the shelves. But the bakery is empty. Greg shakes his head and steps outside, keeping one hand on the door as he leans out to check the street. The sky is tinted with gold, quiet and clean, but the sidewalk is empty. No one on the left. No one on the right.
Not a soul in sight.
And that is the strange part – Greg is certain someone knocked. Not a dream-knock. Not a trick of the pipes, it was real. Sharp. Clear. But now he’s the only one standing out here in the morning chill, probably looking like a fool – searching for someone who, if they were here, left without a trace.
Greg scratches the back of his head with flour dusted fingers, lips parting slightly in a bewildered breath as he prepares to just shrug it off and head back inside to tend to the rest of the dough. But as he turns towards the doorway, something on the ground catches his eye.
There – just to the right of the stoop, near the potted daffodils – lies a beige envelope.
He stops, blinks.
It’s not just any envelope. It has his name written on it.
Greg’s brows pull together slowly. It’s odd, any mail addressed to the bakery are usually bills, those kinds of envelopes never being something he wants to receive at his home address. Either that or it’s a catalogue or an overdo utility notice. No one sent him personal letters here. Not at work, and certainly not in handwriting like this – precise, almost clinical, the kind of penmanship that makes his shoulders stiffen just looking at it.
Still, Greg picks it up. Because it’s the right thing to do, because maybe there’s some mundane explanation, and standing here gawking isn’t going to find it. The envelope is thicker than standard – tall rather than wide, and made of rougher cardstock. A business-style envelope. Greg tilts it slightly in the light, examining it with narrowed eyes as he steps back into the bakery. The door swings shut behind him with a muted clack, the small brass bell overhead giving a reluctant jingle.
The early sun filters through the windows in slanted bars, glinting off the glass displays and scattering across the tile floor. Flour still dances faintly in the air, but Greg doesn’t notice any of it.
His steps are slow, deliberate, almost wary as he walks deeper into the bakery with the envelope still in hand. He studies it as though it might reveal something new if he stares long enough – some hidden meaning pressed into the fibers. It’s just that shape isn’t quite right. It doesn’t look like something he’d find in a neighbor’s mailbox, but rather something slid across a table in a fluorescent-lit room.
Something official, something sterile.
And Greg doesn’t have any official contacts, he’s not a part of anything anymore – having withdrawn himself during his recovery from the surgery.
He turns the envelope over in his hands, thumb running along the seal, and finally flips it toward him to look at the front properly – and his heart stutters. Not because of what’s written, but because of what’s beside it.
A sigil. Stamped into the corner in faint metallic ink, the sort that only shows fully when caught in the right angle of light. He recognizes it instantly.
Greg’s breath catches instantly in his throat – and this time, not just metaphorically. The muscles seize without warning, sharp and involuntary. Pain blooms behind his jaw like a flare, pulling a wince from his eyes. He swallows instinctively, but it only makes it worse.
A low, wet rasp tries to rise from his throat but can’t. He lifts his free hand, gripping the back of the nearest chair, grounding himself in the burn. His fingers dig into the polished wood, his shoulders tense. Greg’s had these episodes before, and the intervals between them vary wildly. Sometimes he’ll go two weeks without one. Other times, it’s days. Or hours.
They always come back though, and they always hurt.
The doctors never really figured it out after the surgery, vocal reconstruction isn’t a practiced science – especially not after what they did to him. Especially not after that final visit. He waits, lets the pain crest and settle like a tide.
Eventually, the straining lets go, and Greg exhales through his nose, jaw still tight. His throat throbs like an old bruise, deep and purple and angry. He doesn’t go for water even though he really wants to, probably needs to. But he knows himself too well. If Greg walks over to the counter, if he sets the envelope down even for a second to fetch a glass, he won’t come back to it. Not now, not ever.
And someone else might find it.
He stares at the envelope, still trembling slightly in his hand. Greg’s sworn off anything to do with this sigil, promised himself. Whatever’s in this envelope, he doesn’t want it, doesn’t need it. Doesn’t care. He can’t care, but he also can’t throw it away. That’s the curse of it.
So Greg does what he always does – he looks for a hiding place. Somewhere no one will think to check. The drawers are out; they’re opened and closed all day. Customers drop coins in them, Sarah rifles through them when looking for coupons because he doesn’t give her discounts for being friends with him, the owner of the bakery. The kitchen? No way, Sarah has caught her Christmas gift in there a month early, and Greg knows she snoops when she thinks he’s being “cagey”.
The trash is a no-go. Too easy, too final.
But then his eyes land on the potted plant in the corner by the window. It’s dusty, decorative. Usually he’s the only one who waters it.
Perfect.
Before he can second-guess it, Greg moves. He slips the envelope between his teeth and crouches next to the pot, already digging with his fingers through the dry soil. The dirt crumbles easily under his fingers, flaking into his palms. He breathes slowly through his noose, eyes focused, determined. Just a few inches down, that’s all he needs. A small grave for a cursed letter.
When the hole is deep enough, he pulls the envelope from between his teeth, sliding it gently into the space he’s made, tucking it in like he’s planting something fragile. Greg twists his hand, making sure it stays buried, wedged beneath the earth where it won’t rise with a breeze or a brush. He starts filling it in, leveling the soil with both hands. He takes longer than he needs to. Brushes stray bits of dirt back into place, smooths out the surface like a ritual, patting it down so no corner or edge gives away the secret underneath.
When he finishes, Greg sits back on his heels and exhales again. Done, out of sight and out of reach. Out of his life. But yet, his fingers linger in the soil a second longer, motionless. Because he knows – deep down, despite all the effort – that it’s not gone, just hidden. The letter isn’t torn to shreds or burned in the fire, it is simply taking up space somewhere else, a trade s that it’s not living rent free in Greg’s head.
Greg inhales slowly, his chest rising as he stands up slowly, shoulders relaxing as he turns on his heel. The lingering weight of the envelope still presses gently at the back of his mind, but he pushes through it as he steps toward the kitchen door. He places a hand against the worn metal surface, giving it a firm push. The door swings inward on its hinges with a familiar creak, closing behind him with a soft thud as he re-enters the sanctuary of flour, sugar, and routine.
The moment he crosses the sectioning that separates the storefront from the kitchen, something shifts. The atmosphere here is different – steadier, warmer. The kitchen welcomes him back like an old friend. The anxiety tied to the envelope begins to melt, sliding off his shoulders like butter in a hot pan. Greg lets it. There’s work to be done – dough to finish, pastries to prepare, and pies to perfect.
Sugar. Butter. Flour.
The rhythm of the words settles in his chest like a heartbeat.
At the sink, Greg pumps a generous amount of soap into his hands and scrubs with focus, dirt from the potted plant out in the storefront washing away in spirals. He takes his time, five full minutes passing as he works the soap deep into the lines of his palms and his fingers. When he’s satisfied, Greg dries his hands on a dish towel with practiced care and returns to the wooden island where the ball of dough rests like a blank canvas waiting for his touch.
He reaches for the rolling pin – smooth wood, worn from years of use – and begins his task. The dough yields under his touch as he rolls it outward, pressing it with a careful hand, folding and stretching, coaxing it into shape with the rolling pin. Greg watches every pass with a critical eye, ensuring it doesn’t thin out too much or tear under pressure. Dough this delicate demands respect.
The ideal pie crust should be about one-eighth of an inch thick – a standard Greg can measure in his sleep. It’s etched into his memory with the permanence of the lyrics to his favorite song. He hums them now, softly, almost inaudibly, the sound of his breath catching on the way out.
It’s not quite a hum. Not really.
It’s closer to a whisper, dry and ragged, like a voice filtered through static – like someone who’s been punched in the throat. Like someone who once believed he’d be able to know what his voice sounds like.
But Greg doesn’t flinch anymore when it happens. He’s used to it now, knows the rasp the way his breath stutters. Comfortable with the silence that followed him home after the failed surgery. He still remembers waking up to the sharp sting of truth – the doctor’s words hitting him before the anesthesia had even fully worn off. The world had been a blur of white lights and monitors, and still, they didn’t wait to tell him.
It wasn’t until later, after the fog cleared, that Sarah gently repeated the news to him – that it didn’t work, that the damage is permanent. His voice isn’t going to make an appearance.
The week that followed in the hospital was hell. Every swallow was a battle, a miserable trial that left his throat raw and aching. The novelty of soups and smoothies wore off by day two, and by day three, even pudding felt like a cruel joke. Greg dreamed of scrambled eggs, toast. Something with texture.
But now he’s home. In this kitchen, in control.
The dough finally reaches the perfect consistency. Greg slows the rolling pin, letting it glide one last time across the surface before lifting it gently. He flips it in his hand, brushing off the bits of dough that cling to its side. No need to clean it completely – the flour coating will help with the next batch.
Greg sets the pin aside and heads for the open shelving unit near the back wall. His eyes scan the stacked pie tins, and he reaches up on his toes to grab one from the top row. He always works from the top down – a silent ritual of order, like painting a mural tile by tile.
Back at the island, he places the tin down with a soft clatter, a puff of flour bursting upward and dusting his snout. Greg smiles faintly at the mess, at the way flour clings to his fur like snow. It’s part of the joy.
With a gentle touch, he lifts the sheet of dough and steps sideways, aligning himself with the pie tin. His eyes narrow in concentration as he lowers it in, the dough sinking slowly, delicately, until it molds to the shape of the tin like it was always meant to be there. One wrong move, one wrinkle or stretch, and he’d have to start again.
But he doesn’t.
Greg’s hands are steady, and the dough settles perfectly. He straightens his back, exhales, and picks up the knife. Tapping gently on the edge of the crust, he feels for the ridge of the tin, marking the line he needs to cut. With practiced grace, Greg begins to trim the excess, slicing a clean edge all the way around before scooping the leftover dough into a ball and placing it back in the bowl for later use.
With both hands, Greg lifts the tin, then switches to one arm to free the other as he moves to the oven. He opens the door, crouches low, and slides the tin onto the rack. The heat radiates over his face, and it smells faintly of the last batch of cookies – warm sugar and vanilla. Once the pie crust is in place, he closes the oven door and sets the timer for fifteen minutes.
While the crust pre-bakes, Greg grabs a second mixing bowl and places it on the island. He heads to the fridge, already planning out the filling. Blueberries, he knows where they’re supposed to be, but the fruit drawers are cluttered – bananas, apples, cherries, pears, and grapes all line the shelf in the fridge.
Then, hidden behind a cluster of oranges, Greg spots the carton. He pulls it out and sets it on the counter, then reaches into the shelf below and finds the plate of raw bacon.
A strange pairing, maybe, but one he’s proud of. Sweet and savory. Unexpected; the bakery doesn’t do breakfast – no omelets, no espresso, just desserts and a glass of water if a customer asks. But sometimes Greg experiments, sometimes he’s bold. Knight taught him to be bold, and why the blueberry bacon pie even exists to begin with.
Back at the stove, Greg pulls out a clean pan, sets it on the burner, and flicks on the flame. The burner clicks before settling into a low blue glow. The bacon can wait a minute – he has fruit to measure.
Greg opens the blueberry carton, grabs a measuring cup, and scoops four even helpings into the bowl. Each cupful lands with a soft plop, and when he’s finished, Greg closes the carton and tucks it back into the fridge.
Next is sugar. Three-fourths of a cup, poured in with care. He tilts the bowl gently, letting the sugar drift across the surface like fresh snow until the blueberries are lightly dusted in white.
No blueberry will be left behind – no bitter corner left to sour the experience.
He needs cornstarch next, rummaging briefly through the pantry before finding the familiar container. He pauses, remembers. Is it five tablespoons? No, that had been a disaster – the filling turned to cement. How about one? Fat chance, the dough barely held its shape. Ah, right, three tablespoons; that’s the magic number. Greg nods, satisfied, and adds the ingredient. The mixture is starting to look right.
He returns to the stove and checks the pan. It’s hot now – time for the bacon.
Peeling away the plastic wrap, Greg tosses it into the trash and grabs the first strip. As soon as it hits the pan, it sizzles violently – a sharp crackling noise fills the air. Greg reflexively steps back, wincing as droplets of grease leap up toward his fur.
He never seems to remember what happens.
The bacon curls and browns slowly, its scent already weaving into the sugar-laced air of the bakery. And then, the sharp trill of the timer breaks through the quiet rhythm of the kitchen, and Greg turns toward the oven without needing to be told what to do. He doesn’t flinch or jump unless a bullet of grease flies out of the pan from above – used to the sound by now. With a soft exhale through his nose, Greg reaches for the oven mitt that’s hanging from a small hook off to the side of the stovetop. His fingers wiggle into the fabric like they’re traveling down a greased brown paper bag trying to find a couple of fries while riding in the passenger seat of a car. He opens the door with one hand and slides out the metal rack with the other.
Golden and puffed at the edges, the crust is part ways perfection – just as it should be at this stage. It’s not meant to be fully baked yet, only firmed enough so it can hold the filling without becoming soggy. Greg carefully lifts the tin out with the mitt-protected hand and slides the rack back into place, closing the oven with a satisfying click. He brings the tin over to the wooden island and sets it down gently, letting the crust rest and cool while he turns his attention back to the filling.
The remainder of the pie filling doesn’t take him that much longer, his memory working like a bass player playing their favorite song. Most of the measurements come naturally, each scoop and pour guided by second nature.
The cornstarch has always been his least favorite – useful, necessary, and consistently forgettable. Unlike the tart sparkle of lemon rind or the lush sweetness of the blueberries, cornstarch is all business and no joy – a monotone singing voice over soulful instruments. Still, he adds it, along with a splash of water and that single fragrant teaspoon of grated lemon zest that brightens the whole mix.
He stirs the filling until it’s smooth and unified – no clumps, no streaks. Just a gleaming swirl of dark blue and sugar. When it’s ready, Greg slides the pie crust back to the center of the island, picking up the mixing bowl with both hands before he begins pouring the filling into the crust, tilting the bowl in slow arcs to distribute the blueberries evenly across the surface. The thick mixture spreads with a soft plop, and Greg pauses to admire the way it settles, deep and glossy like polished ink.
Once the bowl is empty, he sets it aside and picks up a large kitchen spoon to gently spread the filling. This step is more delicate, more intimate – it’s about precision now. He glides the back of the spoon across the surface, making sure that no space is missed. But as he wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, he unknowingly drags a streak of blueberry across his fur, leaving a faint purple mark just above his brow. Oblivious, Greg sets the spoon down.
He reaches for the second batch of dough he prepared earlier, already flattened and waiting beside some decorative pieces. Taking a breath to steady himself, Greg lifts the top crust and carefully lays it over the filled pie. He’s slow, mindful of every fold, determined not to tear it. A ripped crust is more than a setback – it’s a heartbreak.
One that rivals the heartbreak when a relationship ends.
The dough settles like a blanket, and only then does Greg allow himself to breathe again even though he’s not finished yet.
One by one, he picks up the small pre-cut shapes – tiny leaves, crafted with patience the day before – and begins placing them along the rim of the crust. He leaves the center pen, a bare canvas waiting for the final ingredient. The leaves frame the pie like petals on a flower, the crust beneath them acting like the branches of a tree. It’s less baking and more storytelling now.
Now that the design is complete, Greg lifts the tin with both hands and makes the familiar walk to the oven again. If he keeps track of each trip, he might find that he’s pacing a path into the floorboards. He places the pie inside the oven with the same care he gives everything he makes, slides the rack back in, and shuts the door.
The oven mitt comes off with a tug, and Greg quickly picks up the tongs sitting on the counter. The bacon crackles in the pan nearby, one side browned and crisp. He flips each strip with ease, letting the other side finish while the pie begins to bake. Thankfully, bacon cooks quickly – he’ll have time to let it cool before sprinkling it atop the finished pie.
As the sizzling continues, Greg glances toward the oven – and his eyes widen slightly. He forgot the timer.
Again.
It’s the third thing he’s forgotten and the day hasn’t even officially started. No customers, no orders. Just him and a kitchen full of flour, fruit, and steam – and a slight scatter to his thoughts. Greg gives his forehead a light slap, leaving another smudge of blueberry there as a reminder, and reaches over to twist the dial.
Forty-five minutes, that will do it.
Which is okay, because the pie of the day is never expected to be on the display case right as the bakery opens – and that’s always a relief, because nine times out of ten, Greg usually ends up dropping the entire pie tin because of–
“Greg!” Sarah swings the kitchen doors open and keeps them there, both of her hands resting on each one. Her purse swings below her arm, guessing she didn’t even bother putting it down before making a beeline to the kitchen. Her eyes scan every inch of the room. “What’s the special pie today?”
Well, that.
Greg lets out a breathy yelp that strains his neck and makes him jump in the air, the sound of the doors hitting the walls on either side of the kitchen. He whips around to face Sarah, trying to quickly gather himself so that he doesn’t keep her waiting, even though she never gets mad for the pauses between his replies.
In fact, Sarah smirks, proud of herself. “Scared you, didn’t I?”
A soft glare is sent to her direction, and Greg huffs, crossing his arms – he’s not going to answer that. Give Sarah the satisfaction.
“Yeah, I totally scared you. You’re so easy, you know that?”
Greg huffs again and rolls his eyes, though offering a small smile.
Sarah laughs and lets go of the kitchen doors and steps inside, letting them swing close behind her, creating a barricade between the kitchen and the bakery out front. The teasing’s always playful, never malicious – not when she knows that Greg’s always here in the bakery at the crack of dawn. She wipes her hands together. “Okay, but in all seriousness – the special pie today, what is it?”
The daily question, the one Sarah always asks whenever she comes into the bakery. She adores how Greg does this, how it adds engagement to the people of the city. It’s a great idea for more profit, to keep the bakery relevant and spreading by word of mouth. And she swears by this reasoning.
Sure, all of this is true – but Greg knows it’s mainly because he lets Sarah taste test each specialty pie he makes everyday.
“Deep shit blueberry bacon,” Greg signs without thinking.
Sarah blinks, her eyes crinkling as she tilts her head and puts her hands on her hips, amused. “Deep shit?”
“Ye–” Greg blinks before his eyes widen, his hands frantically trying to remedy his slip up. “Dish! Deep dish, sorry Sarah.”
Sarah shakes her head and laughs. “I sure hope that’s what you meant, you’ll lose business otherwise. Once that bacon’s done cooking, come out and help clean the counter and tables. I’ll handle going through the register to make sure we have the same amount we ended yesterday with.”
Greg nods, smiling sheepishly at the mess up even though it’s no big deal. It passes through him, saluting. “On it, Sarah. I’ll be right out.”
“And bring some trays out of the other pastries so we can restock the display cases, I noticed that some of the trays were empty out there before I rushed in here.” Sarah says before turning and walking out of the kitchen. He can hear her rummaging around the storefront even from the kitchen.
The supply closet door out front swings open with a dull creak, then closes again with a polite click. Greg imagines that she’s pulling out the folded stack of crisp, clean linens, the cream-colored ones she prefers for the display case. There’s a brief pause before the gentle whoosh of fabric unfurling onto wood reaches his ears. She’s draping the cloth across the front table, smoothing it out with the flat of her palm. Always left to right, she doesn’t like wrinkles near the furniture.
Greg doesn’t glance toward the kitchen doors, he doesn’t need to. He can feel her presence, as familiar as the hum of the refrigerator or the rising warmth from the stovetop.
A soft creak follows as Sarah opens the pastry case lid. The glass panel always sticks a little on one side – just enough to make a sound. He hears the quiet scratch of a towel working in circles on the display shelves inside, her humming beginning soon after. Wordless, melodic, absentminded. It’s a little tune she hums every morning, half lullaby, half sunrise.
Then comes the knock – three light taps on the wall near the kitchen doors. Greg smiles, her usual method of passing information. The display case is all cleaned and ready to be restocked when he decides to come out of the kitchen.
He taps twice in return with the back of a spoon on the wooden counter, letting her know that he got the message.
Sarah’s footsteps shuffle toward the area where they have the water – regular and flavored, and a familiar sequence unfolds: the clink of glass, the movement of the ice being poured into the pitchers, the plopping of the lemons, strawberries, and cucumbers as they’re put into their respective pitchers for the day. It’s a rhythm Greg knows by heart, the cups hit the counter and then she pours the unflavored water into their pitchers, the scent of the flavored water mixing with the sweetness of the baking pie.
Greg imagines her leaning against the counter with one hand on her hip and the other turning the tab of the pitcher as she watches the cucumber flavored water pour down into the cup under the mouth of the pitcher she has every morning. Sarah probably didn’t have breakfast yet, she rarely does – always eating one of the pastries here as her substitute
A breeze wafts into the kitchen as she moves again – more footsteps, slower this time, then the subtle scrape of the chalkboard sign being picked up from beside the register. The front door swings open a quiet creek and the jingle of the bell up above, a gentle gust of wind enters the storefront because the napkins on the table start flittering, threatening to fly away. Sarah’s probably out there writing today’s pie special.
Greg opens the kitchen door just a crack and gets a glimpse of Sarah out front, propping the bakery’s chalkboard sign on the sidewalk just so. The breeze tussles a few strands of her hair as she adjusts the angle, checking it from a step back before nodding once and slipping back inside. The door closes behind her with a muted click, sealing in the warmth.
Silence settles again, but not an empty silence – one of comfort.
Greg closes the kitchen door and walks back over, drying his hands on a dish towel and looking toward the pie, still baking steadily in the oven. The timer has thirty-three minutes left. He turns the stovetop off and takes the pan off, using a spatula to transfer the bacon so that it can cool down a bit more before it's added to the pie. The kitchen smells like sugar, salt, and something a little like hope.
Sarah’s been Greg’s friend for awhile now, having stayed by his side after the surgery, and helping him recover by just keeping him company – they watched a lot of bad movies together in the hospital, along with the news because neither of them wanted to get up and get the remote to change the channel.
And while Sarah didn’t work for him, she always came in and helped out in the store. Greg offered to pay her for the trouble, but she never took it.
The story at the time was about some rock group who had recently kicked their guitarist out of the band for reasons that weren’t disclosed. Greg can’t remember what the name of the band was, but there seemed to be some popularity behind it if the announcement of the auditions for the new guitarist was being plastered all over the news.
Greg has a fleeting thought, wondering where the guitarist who got kicked out of the band is now.
He takes a deep breath, savoring the full breaths he can take without his throat glitching and causing strained pain that lingers for a few minutes afterwards – a price he didn’t think he’d have to pay for these stitches.
But these feelings get shaken off of him like flour, and Greg grabs two trays of pastries from the racks off to his left and heads towards the kitchen doors, using his back to open them.
When he walks out into the storefront, Greg’s greeted by the blaring bakery lights that have been turned on. He squints but quickly adjusts, blinking to allow his vision to settle down. Sarah’s to his left behind the counter, mumbling to herself with the register open as she counts the coins and dollars in it. Just like the kitchen is Greg’s domain, the cash register is Sarah’s. She’s always so good with the customers; though besides her great people skills, the other half of it is because she can talk to the customers.
Greg can’t, because most of the patrons that come in don’t know sign language, so he becomes the silent pastry master, the one that creates the tasteful goodies that have the customers coming back for more – sometimes daily, so they can try the different pie specials.
He carries the trays of pastries over towards the display case, walking past Sarah to get to the correct section that these desserts are supposed to be in. Greg holds the tray securely with one hand and squats down, opening the glass door so he can reach inside the display case. Before putting in the pastries, he double checks the labels so nothing is misplaced – not wanting the chocolate croissants to be advertised as a strawberry scone via the name cards in the display case.
A minor mistake to others, but there have been some customers that have complained about the wrong labeling of their baked goods, which then promptly led to a team meeting after the bakery closed to make it clear that people come into their store wanting what they ordered, so they can’t be mislabeling their products.
“Morning Greg,” Sarah says as he’s refilling the plates in the display case. She counts the coins that are in her hand and then drops them back into the register, watching as they pile up into the slot. “You’ve got some kind of fruit filling on your forehead.”
Greg blinks and pauses, his hand that’s holding the last chocolate croissant from the tray hovering over the plate in the display case. He’s taken out of his rhythm by the statement, so it takes him a few minutes to fully process what Sarah had said – something that always happens when he’s working and someone tries to talk to him. He never gets mad about the disruption, instead just spacing out so he can catch up on the conversation he’s about to jump into. There have been times where it has startled him before – having burned his hand once in the oven since he was taking a pastry out of it at the time. And when that happens, he doesn’t space out, but instead takes deep breaths to keep his frustration from boiling over.
No anger – he shouldn’t be angry.
His hand moves again, placing the last chocolate croissant onto the plate before standing up and closing the glass door, the orange cream puffs being in a different section of the display case that is accessed by a different door on the case. But first, he has to address the disruption to his appearance. “There is?”
Sarah hums and nods, grabbing a napkin from the counter that is by the tip jar and handing it to him. “Seems like you got carried away baking this morning, huh?”
Greg takes the napkin from her appreciatively and flushes in embarrassment before wiping his forehead, having to make a few aggressive rubs with it to get the blueberry filling out of his fur, the blueberry smudges having hardened a little.
“Is that such a crime?” He signs, walking over to the trash can to throw away the dirty napkin. As he presses the pedal with his foot to open it, a wave of relief surges through his veins, grateful to his past self for not throwing that envelope from earlier in here.
He glances towards the potted plant to double check that the soil hasn’t been tampered with – and it hasn’t, the dirt remains level and therefore, the envelope remains hidden. Greg walks back over behind the counter to start refilling the plate that holds the orange cream puffs. He holds the tray the same way he did the last one and walks towards the other section of the display case and squats down again, unlocking that section’s glass door.
Sarah hums again, moving onto counting the dollars now that the coins are all finished. “Not unless your desserts keep their title as having the best quality ingredients. I do not want to see you using any artificial flavors.”
Greg shivers at the thought, shaking his head. “I’d rather die than use artificial flavors.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Greg hums and smiles, watching as Sarah reaches over to the little portable radio that rests on the counter to turn it on while he refills the display case of the orange cream puffs. He sets these ones down more gently because of their size, these pastries being easy to crumble to pieces by just one wrong move – a heavenly sensation when being eaten, but rather tricky when handling them before they’re even sold.
“Same station as always?” Sarah asks with a smile.
He glances up at her after she asks that, and Greg hesitates for a moment. The station they always play is tried and true, never failing to assist and enrich the atmosphere of the bakery as the customers come in. Sweet, welcoming, friendly – this is how Greg wants to present the bakery, and he enjoys the music their go-to station plays, but he also doesn’t mind shaking things up a bit, maybe something with a more pronounced electric guitar. But he knows that’s probably a bad idea, so he nods softly.
The radio station stays the same.
It’d require something – or someone – to persuade him to make that station change.
Greg stands back up from the display case and closes the glass door, stacking the empty tray onto the one that held the chocolate croissants so that he can carry them both back to the kitchen. He shrugs, wiping his hands onto his apron, adding to the mosaic of flour and stained fruit fillings and chocolate on his canvas.
Walking out from behind the counter, Greg leaves the two stacked trays there with Sarah and grabs a towel and the bottle of cleaning spray. He’ll take the trays back to the kitchen when he hears the timer go off for the pie that’s in the oven. He makes his way towards the counter where he begins to clean the surface by using the bottle to spray out the liquid and then wiping the towel on the counter.
The counters are never a problem to clean, so Greg breezes past them like they’re nothing – the hitch comes, however, when he goes to clean the tables. Greg has to adjust to the height difference from the counters to the tables, having to hunch over to really focus on making sure thes surface of the tables are pristine, not letting a single stain of past custards or icings survive his cleaning.
For the first few minutes of wiping down the tables, nothing goes wrong. But when he’s on the third table, Greg’s lungs hold his breath hostage again when he tries to let out a sigh, and he almost chokes. He lets go of the towel and quickly stands up to try and course correct the ai trapped in his body. He swallows and winces, this one feeling as if the stitches in his neck have turned in on themselves, the sutures now instead poking the inside of his throat and causing this entire blockage.
The cleaning bottle drops and clatters on the ground.
Gripping the edge of the table, Greg tries not to let himself hunch over into the pain, knowing that’s what caused it and therefore will only make it worse. He tries breathing again, but it only makes it about halfway up his throat – somehow, it was easier to deal with back in the kitchen, where there was no one else watching him. Greg can’t see, but he knows that Sarah is staring at him.
If the clattering of the cleaning bottle on the floor doesn’t catch their attention, then the soft breathy gasps to get his breath working again surely does.
He tries focusing on something he can see, something tangible that he can lock himself onto – because trying to focus on how the air feels in his lungs can’t help him like it usually does. Not wanting to look around the bakery and risk coming face-to-face with Sarah and Chief, Greg chooses to zero his gaze on the towel he was just using to clean the table with.
His hand moves slowly, shakily, towards the towel until he’s touching it. The cloth is damp, and it counteracts the warmth radiating from his fingertips – his body always seems to conduct more heat when the pain comes and shuts him down for those long minutes. It’s accumulated the entire amount of spray that’s been used this morning, even if it’s just been the counters and the tables so far.
Greg switches from having his hand spread out on the towel to bawling it up in his fist, as though wringing the cleaning liquid out of the cloth will act in the same vein as rinsing out a towel over his head to stay cool during a heatwave.
The cleaner, however, is room temperature so it doesn’t offer much relief to the palm of his hand
Slowly, the pain dulls down to an ache, and the air in his lungs travels freely again. Greg takes three deep breaths to savor the feeling, still holding onto the towel. Eventually, he gets back to work and continues wiping down the table, moving on even though his throat still lingers in the dull ache. He bends down and picks up the cleaning bottle.
“Are you okay, Greg?” Sarah asks, having stopped counting out the money in the register when Greg’s shutdown began. He holds the handle of the broom with both hands, tilting his head as he looks over at his coworker.
Greg simply nods, his hum fainter than usual – his sounds always take a bit longer to reset after this happens. It’s normal; there’s nothing he needs to worry about. So he keeps working.
Sarah’s eyebrows furrow from behind the register, only having been able to witness everything from behind Greg. She shakes her head and lets out a breath, used to the routine of Greg’s insistences that he’s okay. He’s a gentle soul, but also a stubborn one in his own right – one that Sarah can ever seem to truly break the walls down of. She wonders if anyone can, so all she says is, “The mail better come today.”
Eyes shifting, Greg makes a secret glance over towards the potted plant before looking back to finish wiping down the table. It’s more risky now to double check that the envelope’s still hidden, but he needs to make sure no one’s messed with the soil – and this is his only time to do it, because once the sign flips to Open , he’ll be spending most of his time in the kitchen making more and more desserts so that he can refill the display case efficiently.
And on that note, Greg goes back to the main counter, towel and cleaning spray in hand – he needs to check to see what they’re selling so that he can have those on standby in the kitchen.
Besides the chocolate croissants and the orange cream puffs, they also have the strawberry cupcakes, sugar cookies shaped in the style of hearts with pink icing on them, and slices of caramel cheesecake – Greg backlogs those desserts in his head for later. He squats down again and opens a cabinet door behind Sarah and puts the cleaning bottle away, then stands up and drapes the towel over his shoulder – the sink’s in the kitchen as well.
The clock on the wall strikes eight, and Sarah lets out a huff, jumping up and down as she shakes out her limbs to get ready for the day. Greg looks out to the front door, and he finally notices all of the cars that are parked out in the lot – oh boy.
People have been waiting for them to open, but how long have they been there?
Not since Greg picked the envelope up from the front door, at least. They must’ve arrived after he went back inside – shit, did anyone see him hide the envelope? Greg gulps at the thought, this time not even reacting to the slight sting in his throat.
Both of them taking a collective breath, Sarah flips the sign so that it says Open and moves back to the register quickly to the side, pushing in the drawer where the money is so that none of it is lost. As if on cue, multiple car doors fly open and then close as the people get out and rush towards the front doors – making their way to the bakery like a stampede.
Greg feels the sudden urge to retreat back into the kitchen so he doesn’t get trampled, but with this many customers heading their way, he knows that Sarah’s going to need all the help she can get out here – so he grounds himself and stays put just in time for the front doors to open.
And the day starts like the rest he’s seen, another carbon copy of an old routine.
The morning rush – there’s never been a clear way to explain it, because the experience is always different. Where some are hectic but easy-going, others can end up being an anxiety-inducing earthquake. Greg prays that it’s the former.
The orders come just as fast as the people did, and Greg finds himself switching between standing and squatting multiple times in the span of five minutes. He doesn’t talk to any of the customers, but on the rare occasion where he delivers one of their pastries on a plate because the customer is eating at the bakery, he smiles and nods as they thank him after he places the plate down in front of them.
It takes a couple rounds of orders – and a restock of the orange cream puffs – until the bakery settles down enough where Greg can breathe properly. He bends down and stretches his back, not wanting it to get a knot from how much he’s been standing straight up like this. Sarah’s back to counting the money in the cash register, and Greg’s cleaning off one of the tables someone had just left, the kid excitedly talking about how getting a sweet treat is a happy end – despite the day just starting.
Better enjoy it while he can.
Sarah’s on the phone, a customer having called in to place an order. He’s sure she’ll tell him about it later.
With the bakery finally at a calm point, the music from the radio station finally finds its way into Greg’s eardrums. There’s a beat to the songs that are playing, melodies that bring the store alive and make the customers happy. As he walks around the storefront, delivering the pastries and waters to the people that eat in the shop, he hears some of them humming the tune or singing along to lyrics under their breath. The kids that are in here dance around some of the tables, circling around him as he walks the floor and works. It has a good beat, Greg will admit that.
Like before, he does enjoy this genre of music. It was the main music he listened to during his recovery, introduced to him by Sarah when he asked for new music recommendations. She was a little surprised at the request, but she was happy to do so after she settled that Greg had asked her to do this.
Greg understands why she was surprised at the time – he never really asked for new music recommendations, always knowing what he prefers and what he doesn’t. If the decor in his bedroom is anything to go by, the music genre he used to be passionate about is never doubted by anyone. But then the surgery happened and things changed – the music changed, and part of him doesn’t hate it.
He just doesn’t mind if the bakery explores some different tastes, some different sounds of music – they might find their new regular like that, a new way to attract more customers. From being an avid listener of music, Greg knows that certain music attracts certain types of people. It’s a logical way of thinking of the business, and if new music is explored, then hey – Greg won’t complain.
Knight loved every genre of music – having records and CDs of every album he fell in love with. The only music he didn’t own were the albums he didn’t feel strongly about. That was the main thing he wanted Greg to know as he shared his music in the past – wasting time on music that didn’t speak to him, that didn’t move him, was time he’d never get back. But that didn’t mean the songs or the albums were bad, just that the band, the album, wasn’t for him. And that’s okay.
Music speaks a million truths and then some, Greg just had to find the music that spoke to him the way it spoke to Knight.
And any genre can house a good song, the criteria never being rules etched in stone but everchanging, morphing as new themes and feelings are sung about. The lyrics that echo through the bakery right now depict change, and how everyone should embrace it, that good can come from change and the unexpected.
Maybe that can be a tomorrow thing, if he works up enough boldness to suggest a new channel, and if Sarah enjoys it – because it’s only fair, especially since she doesn’t take pay. The least Greg can do is play music that makes working at the bakery enjoyable for her.
It’s what friends do.
Sarah walks up to him when the song on the radio changes. He looks up from the table he’s currently cleaning, his hand coming to a stop so that she has his full attention.
Greg stands straight and takes a quick over at the counter to make sure that no one is waiting to have their order taken. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing yet,” she says, putting one hand on her hip. “But I just got a call from the principal down at the local elementary school. There’s some event they’re hosting there for the kids, and they want us to cater the desserts.”
“How much are we talking here?” Greg signs, the cleaning towel now hanging over his shoulder. It should just become a regular part of his outfit by now.
“Still unclear, I was told one of the teachers will be sent over at some point to put in the official order. And since baking the desserts is your skill, you’ll be handling it as you usually do.” Sarah says.
Greg shrugs his shoulders and tilts his head with a smile — he can’t argue with that. He took these big orders himself usually, wanting to have a clear vision of what the client is asking for.
No misunderstandings.
He’s not going to get it wrong by playing a losing game of telephone when Sarah takes the orders.
It’s something they both agree is absolute hell — if the first ever attempt has a say in it, which it does.
“If they come in while I’m in the kitchen, come get me.” He signs, knowing that’s where he most likely will be when it happens. He wonders if he’ll be able to tell who it’ll be if he is by chance out in the storefront.
Should the school be the one Greg is thinking about, he expects the teacher to be well-dressed. Everytime he walks by the place, every kid is in a uniform where no stitch is out of line — like their attitudes. He expects the teachers to be the same.
Greg will have to prepare himself should an asshole walk through the bakery front doors with no sense of time or energy. He’ll have a hard time even accepting an offer from someone with that attitude, but the money will pay handsomely — and business is business.
It’s not like he’ll end up hanging out with the asshole, if that’s who they turn out to be.
Nah, Greg doesn’t have to worry about that — spared another headache.
The timer trills – sharp and sudden, cutting clean through the hum of the kitchen like a bell calling someone home. Greg flinches only slightly at the sound, caught up in cleaning tables after the customers there have left the bakery. He looks over at Sarah and lits his hand in a swift, apologetic wave towards her. She acknowledges it with a soft nod before heading back to the register to help a customer that just walked in the door. Greg turns on his heel and heads back towards the kitchen, swinging the door open with his hand and walking inside. The hinges give their usual squeak as he pushes through, the scent of baked fruit and cinnamon rushing to greet him like an old friend.
Inside, the kitchen breathes warmth, quiet despite the chaos outside in the storefront. The overhead light casts a golden sheen across the polished countertops, the risen sun making the room even brighter – and the oven radiates a soft, familiar heat. Greg moves with practiced grace, grabbing the thick cotton mitt from its hook and slipping it onto his hand as he crouches slightly in front of the oven door. He cracks it open, and a sweet, buttery wave of steam billows out, curling into his fur and nestling itself deep within his soul.
The pie tin glints faintly in the light as he reaches in and pulls it out, the crust perfectly golden and flecked with sugar, its juices bubbling at the edges. He sets the pan carefully on the heat-safe surface beside the oven and closes the door behind him with a gentle click. A breath escapes his nose – half satisfaction, half relief.
He cradles the pie tin in both hands and crosses the kitchen towards the wooden island, setting the pie down gently at its center. It’s not just today’s pie special – it’s an offering. Something that, if he’s honest with himself, carries more hope than sugar.
He only hopes Knight would like the way he made it.
Greg turns to the cooling rack where the pan of bacon waits. The crisp scene has mellowed now, no longer sizzling-hot but still rich and comforting. He takes the handle with a steady hand, tilting the pan over a small ceramic bowl and watching the pieces tumble in with a satisfying clink clink clink. When the last of it slides out, he sets the pan aside and flexes his wrists with a soft shake, letting the joints loosen.
Then, adjusting the sleeves to his flour-dusted shirt, he dips his hands into the bowl.
The bacon crumbles easily under his touch. He doesn’t rush it, instead enjoying the quiet rhythm of breaking it apart, the sharp edges softening into bite-sized bits. Greg flicks his fingers lightly when pieces cling, and they scatter back into the bowl like dry leaves on the wind. Once it’s done, he scoops up the bowl and walks it over to the island, setting it down beside the pie like it’s a crown waiting for a queen.
Greg gently taps the surface of the pie with the back of his knuckle – just enough to test the heat. It’s warm, not scalding. Ready.
He plunges a hand into the bowl and lifts a palmful of bacon bits, letting them fall slowly, purposefully, across the top crust. They cascade like rain – no, like spring blossoms caught in a breeze, each one landing with care on the delicate lattice of sugar and butter. A soft grin tugs at the corner of Greg’s lips as he reaches in for another handful, this time seaking a few between his teeth. His eyes flick to the kitchen door, no one sees.
But it’s not for mischief, it’s for quality control. Taste testing. That’s what Sarah would say, and he hears her voice in his head – dry, knowing, a little amused as she expresses that he has to check his work, that it’s good science.
He chuckles soundlessly to himself, finishing the final sprinkle with a flourish. Once there’s no more room for bacon, he nudges the bowl away, intending to clean it later. The pie looks perfect, maybe even better than yesterday’s special. And this one – this one isn’t from the recipe cards in the weathered box sitting by the fan in the corner. This one is his, was Knight’s.
The fan is buzzing, angling ever so slightly in the wrong direction. Greg eyes the recipe box ever so briefly, knowing if the breeze shifted just a little more, the cards would be lifted and scattered like birds startled into flight. They’d dance through the kitchen air before fluttering to the floor like snow. He makes a mental note to fix it later.
Greg swallows, touching his neck gently. His fingers graze over the stitches slowly, still thinking of them as barbed wire but at least the sutures don’t feel as though they’ve turned to be inside his throat rather than outside like earlier. Now it just feels uncomfortable – bearable, but uncomfortable.
He’s still not going back – well, back again. Greg did what he was asked to recover, even after the surgery went wrong, he recovered how he was told to do. From starting out on a liquid diet to staying silent for the next weeks following the surgery, he followed every rule and did everything in the end. But what did they give him in return? An even more messed up throat that is beyond saving.
The only thing he doesn’t know is why it is beyond saving, which may be his own fault for pushing away the answers to, but even still, he’s not going back there. He’ll sit and live with the occasional pain instead, Greg didn’t care. He just didn’t want to go back.
Greg takes a deep breath, glad that there isn’t an interruption this time, and picks up the pie. The tin is still warm from being in the oven, but it’s not enough to where it’ll burn his fingers off. He walks out from behind the island and starts making his way towards the kitchen doors.
Using his hip, he gets one of the doors opened slightly until he’s hearing a voice – Sarah’s voice. And at first, he takes it as her taking a customer’s order at the counter, but then he hears her mention the plant in the corner of the bakery, and Greg’s blood suddenly runs cold.
He forgot that Sarah sometimes waters that plant in the morning as well – he isn’t the only one who does it.
The envelope.
Without even thinking, Greg bolts out of the doors into the storefront to stop her while still holding the pie like a shield. The storefront blurs around him, chairs, tables. Sunlight spilling in through the glass. He scans the room frantically, heart thudding, but finds no one near the plant. His feet come to a stop and he lets out a breath of relief before he walks over to the ceramic pot. She must’ve gone to go get some water for the plant from the bathroom. Yeah, that has to be it.
Greg forgets momentarily that Sarah gets her water from the pitchers of unflavored water they have out for the customers.
Making it to the plant, Greg leans down to dig up the envelope from the soil, fully ready to hold the pie with one hand and dig with the other. But when he gets a closer look, he finds that the soil has already been tampered with – oh shit .
And once again, his blood runs cold – even more so, if that was possible. Greg’s head starts racing because where the hell could the envelope have gone, could someone else have found it while he was busy working? Maybe it was a kid, they usually loved digging their tiny fingers into the earth. That should offer some comfort, because if that’s the outcome then the entire problem is no longer something he needs to worry about. He can continue his life without this hiccup in the way, a hitch that most likely would’ve kept him from sleeping tonight.
Greg takes a deep breath as he stands back up straight, completely ready to go on about his day and continue working his shift at the bakery. But as he turns to go put the pie on its own display platter, the only thing his eyes are able to focus on is Sarah, who is standing in the middle of the bakery, silent.
He feels his stomach drop.
Sarah’s clutching the envelope that is no longer hidden in the soil, her eyes widening as she realizes it’s not housing a letter, but test results.
Medical test results.