Work Text:
Jimmy liked mornings.
Not the bleary-eyed, rush-to-open ones where Grian was throwing baguettes into the oven like they were weapons and Joel was loudly debating the politics of jam with a customer before they’d even paid. No — Jimmy liked his mornings. The quiet ones, where the air was cool and still smelled faintly of last night’s rain, and the only sound was the rhythmic slap of dough against the worn counter tucked away in The Bread Bridge’s small kitchen.
Flour clung stubbornly to his forearms and freckled the front of his apron, pale against the dark fabric. The smell of warm bread hung in the air, sweet and heavy, catching in his throat. Dust motes—half flour, half sunlight—swirled lazily in the gold light spilling through the window. Jimmy moved like he was wading through it, deliberate and a little stiff, shoulders hunched, just slightly.
He checked the list for the day’s special — raspberry-rosemary scones.
Two teaspoons of rosemary.
He rifled through the cupboards, tossing aside jars and tins, even peeking behind the stacks of flour. Not a sprig in sight. Nothing. Completely gone.
Jimmy groaned under his breath, shoulders sagging. Just great.
They needed it for the scones, and the only nearby place that might have some was...
Pyramid Bakery.
Fuck.
He groaned, dragging a hand down his flour-dusted face like it might scrub the thought out of his head.
For thirty long seconds, he tried to convince himself there was another option. There wasn’t. He could already hear Joel suggesting they “just use parsley, mate, it’s green” and Grian making up some elaborate reason they should drop the special entirely.
With a muttered curse, Jimmy untied his apron and hung it on its hook, sending a faint puff of flour into the air. The alley outside was still damp from the night’s rain, slick cobblestones catching glints of early light, now growing cloudy. The whole street felt half-asleep, a strange in-between where every sound carried too far.
Pyramid Bakery sat smugly at the corner, its neat windows catching the gold glow. One light was on in the back.
Jimmy told himself to turn around, that walking in there would be the worst possible start to his morning. But before he could talk himself out of it, his knuckles had already tapped against the back door.
It opened faster than he expected.
The man in the doorway froze.
For a split second, his expression was open — startled, wide-eyed — before something unreadable settled over it. He was shorter than Jimmy by a good head, messy blonde hair catching the kitchen light, a faint dusting of flour on his forearms, and a pair of bright red sunglasses perched high on his nose despite the sun barely being up. His ears glinted with piercings, ranging between a dark ebony to a shiny silver. He seemed stared just a beat too long, like his brain had tripped over itself, before blinking hard and glancing away.
Jimmy’s first thought was …oh. He’s hot.
His second was a sharp, annoyed Why am I thinking that?
“Morning?” the man said, the words tinged with a lazy American lilt that Jimmy wasn’t prepared for. There was a flush creeping high on his cheeks, the kind that stood out even in the cooling light behind him.
Jimmy shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to sound casual. “Yeah. Uh. I need some fresh rosemary? Do you have any? And before you say anything, I wouldn’t be here if I had another choice.”
The man’s lips quirked — not a smirk, not quite a smile — but his ears were pink now too. He shifted his weight like he didn’t trust himself to stand still.
“…Sure,” he said after a beat, stepping aside to hold the door open.
Jimmy brushed past him — and the warmth hit instantly. Not just the kind that came from ovens, but the way the whole place felt like it was steeped in golden light. The air was rich with butter, sugar, and the deeper, almost nutty scent of something fresh out of the oven. The wooded floors gleamed under the sunlight spilling through the front windows. Mugs sat waiting on the counter, steam curling lazily into the still air.
It was… nice. Cozy. The kind of place you could lose a whole morning in.
Exactly the kind of place Jimmy hated to admit he liked.
The man moved toward the shelves at the back, clearly reaching for the rosemary. As he stepped aside, Jimmy’s eyes drifted. A tray of pastries had just come out of the oven, steam curling gently from their golden edges. The smell hit him — sweet, buttery, irresistible. His stomach growled despite himself.
He blinked, quickly averting his gaze before it became obvious he was staring. But there was no mistaking the precision in the way the man handled the tray, the effortless way he moved around his small, sunlit kingdom.
The man returned in front of him, rosemary in hand before offering it to Jimmy, wordlessly. He accepted it, their fingers brushing before the blonde jerked his hand away.
Jimmy cleared his throat, “Right… uh.. thanks.” He tried to sound brisk, but the words came out more hesitant than he intended.
The man didn’t step back. He just… watched. Eyes flicking up, then down, then back again, like he wasn’t sure whether to let Jimmy leave or make him stay. The warmth of the bakery seemed to press closer, the scent of butter and sugar wrapping around them both.
Jimmy shifted from one foot to the other, debating whether to march back out and forget the whole thing, or stay and… what, exactly? He wasn’t supposed to be charmed by the competition. He wasn’t supposed to notice how the sunlight made the blonde’s hair shine, or the way the tray of pastries behind him looked impossibly good.
“Well…” Jimmy muttered, brushing imaginary flour off his coat. “I suppose I should be going.”
The man’s lips twitched again, faint, unspoken amusement in his expression. He didn’t move to block the door, but he didn’t step aside either. It was subtle, but deliberate. Jimmy’s eyes caught the movement or lack thereof and something tight twisted in his chest.
He gave a small, reluctant sigh. “Fine. I’ll… just, uh, take this and get back to work.”
Jimmy started toward the door, rosemary clutched in one hand, already telling himself he was done here. But the man’s voice stopped him, soft but urgent.
“Wait!”
Jimmy turned, brow furrowed. The blonde was holding one of the pastries he’d glimpsed earlier, still warm and glistening from the oven. Without thinking, he extended it toward Jimmy.
“Here… uh… stay warm,” he mumbled, voice just a little higher than before. The pink on his cheeks had deepened, and he looked like he might vanish into the pastry-scented air if Jimmy moved too fast.
Outside, a drizzle had begun, tiny droplets dotting the cobblestones, streaking the windows with faint silver lines. Jimmy could already feel the chill sneaking in at the edges of his coat.
He took the pastry, hands brushing briefly against the man’s. The warmth of it, of him, of the bakery itself, hit Jimmy all at once.
“Thanks,” he muttered, trying to keep his tone begrudging, clipped, but failing just slightly. The tiniest tug of a smile threatened the corners of his mouth.
The man shifted, scratching the back of his neck, gaze darting everywhere but at Jimmy’s face. Jimmy couldn’t help but notice, and for reasons he didn’t care to admit, he lingered. Just a moment longer.
The rain continued to patter softly outside, the warm bakery air wrapping around them both, and suddenly leaving wasn’t quite so appealing.