Chapter Text
Blue had spent the last hour pacing in circles and coaching themselves like a motivational speaker in crisis.
“Okay, Blue. Be calm. Be normal. Do not talk about raccoon crimes. Do not knock anything over.”
They immediately knocked over a stack of books.
“It is fine. This is fine.”
At precisely 5:59, there was a soft knock at the door. Zarya was fueled by military-level punctuality.
Blue opened the door with the confidence of someone who absolutely had not been panicking. “Hi. Hello. Hi.”
Zarya stood there holding a bouquet of hand-picked Siberian wildflowers. She looked heroic and beautiful in the soft hallway light.
“These are for you,” she said gently. “I hope they bring you joy.”
Blue clutched the flowers like they were ancient treasures. “Joy? Zarya, these flowers healed my spirit.”
Zarya smiled, warm, and a little shy.
The restaurant glowed with warm light. Zarya sat gracefully while Blue sat with the energy of someone who might slide off the chair without warning.
Halfway through dinner, Blue launched into story mode with the force of a gust of wind.
“So, my friend Maxer has been on a mission to get these cinnamon rolls,” Blue said with dramatic intensity.
Zarya folded her hands neatly. “Cinnamon rolls?”
Blue pointed upward like narrating an epic of prophecy. “Not just any cinnamon rolls. These are made by Hanny. The Hanny. The bakery wizard. The sugar sorcerer. The flour-forging legend.”
Zarya blinked slowly. “This is your friend who bakes?”
Blue gasped. “Bakes? Zarya, no. Hanny creates edible masterpieces.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Zarya’s mouth.
“So Maxer visits Hanny’s bakery every week,” Blue continued. “Every single week. But he is always too late. The cinnamon rolls sell out instantly.”
“Very popular,” Zarya said.
“Popular is not the word. People camp outside. It is like concert tickets. Hanny is the Beyoncé of pastries.”
Zarya laughed, deep, and warm.
“So Maxer starts treating it like a tactical operation,” Blue went on. “He studies bus schedules. He memorizes the bakery hours. He even bought running shoes.”
“Running shoes for cinnamon rolls?”
“Yes. This is passion. Devotions. Athleticism fueled by frosting.”
Zarya laughed even harder, wiping tears from her eyes.
“So, then it happens,” Blue whispered. “The day arrives.”
“The day,” Zarya echoed, amused.
“Yes. Maxer gets to the bakery early. Exceedingly early. And who is behind the counter? Hanny. Glowing like a pastry deity.”
“And the cinnamon rolls?”
“Fresh out of the oven,” Blue said reverently. “Maxer told me he heard angelic singing. He held the box as a rare treasure. He texted me a photo with the caption: ‘Blue, I have achieved inner peace.’”
Zarya shook her head affectionately. “Your life is very lively.”
“I do not invite chaos,” Blue said. “It just arrives at my door and says surprise.”
Zarya looked at Blue with soft warmth. “I like your stories. And your energy.”
Blue made a tiny squeaking noise.
Later, under the evening lights, Blue tripped on a pebble that barely existed. Zarya caught them with effortless reflexes.
Blue looked up, embarrassed. “The ground is out to get me.”
“I will protect you from it,” Zarya said with complete seriousness.
Blue burst into giggles.
Zarya gently tilted Blue’s chin upward. “May I?”
“Yes. Please,” Blue answered instantly.
Zarya kissed them. The kiss was slow, warm, and careful. Blue kissed back with the enthusiasm of a puppy who had just learned they were a good puppy.
When they pulled apart, Zarya rested her forehead against Blue’s. “That was wonderful,” she whispered.
Blue felt like fireworks. “If I die tomorrow, bury me in front of Hanny’s bakery while holding a cinnamon roll.”
Zarya chuckled and pulled them close.