Work Text:
💚
The bakery opened before the sun fully rose. That was the first thing Y/n noticed; not the warmth or the smell of bread, not even the soft yellow lights glowing through the front windows into the sleepy street outside. It’s the rhythm, the unmistakable truth that the building was already alive.
Ovens humming low, trays sliding across counters, the muted scrape of metal bowls. Someone moved confidently through the kitchen like they’d done the same motion a thousand times before.
Y/n hesitated outside the establishment for a moment longer than necessary before pushing inside. The bell above the entrance gave a gentle ring, and warm air wrapped around him—butter, vanilla, coffee, and fresh bread. It smells almost painfully comforting.
Y/n’s grip tightened around the strap of his bag. From behind the counter, a tall green-haired boy looked up briefly from arranging pastries inside the display case. Bronze eyes flicked toward Y/n once, assessing him before going back to the pastries.
“We’re not open yet,” he greeted, stern yet polite, as he focused primarily on the sweets.
Y/n fumbled his words, “Right, sorry. I’m, um—” he adjusted his bag awkwardly, “I’m the new hire.” That got the other’s attention properly, and he straightened slightly. “Y/n L/n?” he questioned.
Y/n swallowed, “Yeah.”
The greenette nodded once, “My mom mentioned you.” He closed the display case carefully before walking around the counter. There’s flour dusted faintly across the front of his apron, one sleeve rolled unevenly to his elbow, yet his glasses remained perfectly symmetrical on his face, and his hair was combed neatly. He looked comfortable here in a way Y/n envied.
“Trey Clover.” he introduced himself, offering his hand. Y/n shook his hand quickly, too quickly. His palm was cold, and it was obvious Y/n wasn’t used to formal introductions. Trey noticed this, and Y/n noticed Trey noticing.
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, detaching their hands, “I’m kind of nervous.”
“First job in food service?” Trey furnished.
“First job period, technically,” Y/n clarified. Trey blinked once, “Seriously?”
Instantly, Y/n looked embarrassed. “I mean—not because I’m irresponsible or anything. I just. . .” He laughed gawkily, “Things happened,” he settled on saying.
Trey didn’t pry, which Y/n appreciated. Instead, he said, “You showed up early. That already puts you ahead of most people.” Y/n exhaled, feeling an invisible tension loosening in his shoulders.
The kitchen doors swung open, and a kind-looking woman stepped out carrying a tray of cooling pastries. Her hair was cut short and was a lighter shade of green than Tray’s; however, her eyes were undeniably the same glint and shade as her son’s.
Mrs. Clover smiled, “Oh, good, you two have met.” She beams at Y/n, “Honey, you look terrified.”
Y/n laughed abashedly, “I’m trying very hard not to be.”
She waved a hand, “Don’t bother. Everyone cries at least once working food service.” Despite her semi-threatening statement, her welcoming tone suggested the opposite. Y/n felt both intimidated and reassured by Mrs. Clover.
“Mom,” Trey looked pointedly at the woman, but she merely shrugged. “What? It builds character,” she defended, handing Y/n a folded apron. He took it graciously as she started to explain his duties: “Mostly we need help cleaning, restocking, washing dishes, and serving front customers during rushes.” She rested her free hand on her hip, the other still holding the pastries without a tremor, “Think you can survive that?”
Y/n blinked, “Probably.”
“Confident answer,” Trey remarked, crossing his arms over his chest. Y/n ducked his head slightly, face flushing.
Mrs. Clover smiled, gesturing to her son with the tilt of her chin, “Trey will show you where everything is.” She started walking to the display case as Tray said, “Sure,” walking toward the double doors without another word. Y/n held tighter onto his apron as he followed the Clover toward the back.
As they passed the kitchen entrance, Y/n glanced inside and stopped in his tracks. The kitchen was beautiful, but not in an extravagant way; rather, it was lived in, with massive mixers humming softly, cooling racks lined with pastries, fresh loaves resting beneath cloth, and measuring cups hanging neatly from hooks. Everything was consciously organized, polished yet familiar.
Trey caught Y/n staring. “You bake?” he asked, breaking Y/n from his thoughts.
Y/n forced himself to recover, “. . . A little,” he answered wearily.
“You look pretty interested.” Trey raised a brow, and Y/n tore his eyes away from the kitchen. “Sorry,” he lamented, “I didn’t mean to stare.”
“I wasn’t complaining,” Trey said simply, catching Y/n off guard. He opened the storage room door, “C’mon, I’ll show you where the cleaning supplies are before Dad accidentally uses sanitizer on a cake pan again.”
It took a lot out of Y/n to not laugh. “That’s happened before?” he asked once he had regained his composure.
“Unfortunately.” There’s the faintest hint of amusement in Trey’s voice now, small and subtle, but Y/n noticed it transparently.
The storage room was cramped but meticulously organized. Shelves stacked neatly with flour bags, sugar containers, canned fruit fillings, boxes of tea, and spare napkins. Everything was labeled and alphabetized.
Y/n turned slowly in place. “This is the cleanest storage room I’ve ever seen,” he marveled.
“You should’ve seen it before Mom reorganized everything.”
“Was it bad?” Y/n asked, tearing his gaze away from the wall of ingredients. Trey adjusted a bottle of vanilla so it faced completely forward. “Dad lost cinnamon for three weeks once.”
Y/n’s brows furrowed, “How do you lose cinnamon?”
“That’s still under investigation.” Y/n laughed softly at that, more relaxed now. Trey saw that and went on to explain where the extra supplies were kept, how inventory works, which shelves to avoid because of their instability, and the like.
Y/n listened with complete attention, hanging on to every word.
“You don’t have to memorize everything immediately,” Trey said after his quick run-down, not wanting to overwhelm the new hire.
“I know,” Y/n replied, but he still repeated the shelf placements quietly under his breath. Trey leaned lightly against the doorframe, watching him. “Are you always this serious?” he asked eventually.
Y/n glanced over, “Not all the time,” he shrugged.
“Sounds exhausting.”
“I don’t want to get anything wrong.” The honesty in Y/n’s answer surprised both of them slightly. Y/n looked away first, his gaze drifting past Trey and toward the kitchen behind him; toward the sounds of baking.
“So, what do you bake?” Trey changed the subject, and Yn froze briefly, the Clover catching it immediately.
“Nothing special,” he brushed off. Trey tilted his head, “That’s not what I asked.”
Y/n hesitated, “Mostly bread, sometimes other pastries.” He internally cringed, “I tried macarons once.”
Trey winced sympathetically. “That’s rough,” he offered, remembering a time when those little devils were the hardest thing to perfect.
“They fused into one giant cookie somehow,” Y/n sighed. Trey snorted quietly; he’s faced that problem too many times to count.
“I still don’t understand the physics behind it,” Y/n grumbled.
“Macarons are evil,” Trey emphasized, provoking Y/n to smile. “They really are.” The smile on Y/n’s face changed his whole demeanor—his shoulders dropped with lost tension, and his brows unfurrowed.
“Alright, there are a few more things you should know before we open,” Trey said, moving to leave the storage room. Y/n nodded, following behind him listlessly, ready to listen to whatever else he needed to learn.
💚
Morning sunlight spilled across the bakery windows in long golden bands, warming the polished floors before the shop even opened. Y/n moved quietly between tables with a rag slung over one shoulder, wiping down chairs and straightening sugar jars with careful concentration. He was still slow sometimes, occasionally second-guessing himself where things belonged, but he had begun settling into the rhythm of the bakery little by little. Along those lines, he started writing things down to remember them better—vanilla goes on the third shelf to the right, checkered tablecloths were only to be used on Sundays, the display case was to be cleaned once every morning, etc., etc.
Behind the front counter, Trey arranged pastries inside the display case with practiced precision. His movements consistently looked effortless to Y/n. It wasn’t rushed nor uncertain; he simply handled delicacies the same way other people breathed: naturally.
Y/n caught himself watching more often than he intended.
Trey adjusted the angle of a fruit tart before stepping back to inspect the array as warm morning light caught faintly against the lenses of his glasses.
Y/n looked away quickly when Trey looked up. A few minutes later, the lunch rush arrived all at once.
The bakery filled with voices and movement and the smell of fresh coffee. Y/n hurried between tables, balancing trays against his shoulder while Mrs. Clover handled the register with impossible efficiency. Orders were called from the kitchen, and fresh bread emerged from ovens in waves of warmth and steam.
As Y/n passed the kitchen entrance carrying dirty plates, he saw Trey pulling loaves from the oven. The sight made him slow instinctively. Steam curled upward into soft golden light while Trey set the bread carefully onto cooling racks. His expression shifted slightly as he worked, the tension in his shoulders disappearing the moment he stepped fully into the kitchen as if it were the only place in the world where everything made sense.
Trey glanced up abruptly, and their eyes met for only a second before Y/n continued working again, pulse inexplicably uneven.
Later that afternoon, Y/n carried extra napkins into the storage room only to find one of the recipe binders left partially open near the prep shelves. He hesitated beside it longer than he should have.
Careful handwritten notes filled the margins: Adjust oven temperature slightly in Winter. Less sugar for strawberry filling. Don’t overmix.
The handwriting was unmistakably Trey’s, clean and neat even in rushed scribbles. Y/n stared quietly at the pages for a moment before gently closing the binder again without touching anything else.
Rain came later that evening, soft against the windows while the bakery glowed warm against the dark street outside. Y/n swept near the kitchen doorway after closing while Mr. Clover and Trey worked side-by-side preparing dough for the next morning.
They moved around each other with the kind of familiarity built only through continuous years of cooperation. One reached for flour while the other handed it over automatically before being asked. Trey bumped the refrigerator shut with his hip while Mr. Clover slid trays into place behind him in easy, seamless movements.
At one point, Mr. Clover said something too low for Y/n. Trey laughed quietly in response, and the sound startled Y/n enough that he looked up instantly. Not because Trey never laughed, but because it always felt strangely rewarding when he did.
The expression softened his whole face in a way Y/n found difficult not to stare at. By the time he realized he was smiling too, Trey had already focused back down at the dough.
Another morning, Y/n carried a stack of clean dishes toward the kitchen when one plate shifted dangerously near the top. He fumbled immediately, causing the dishes to tilt sideways.
Trey caught the edge before anything fell; the movement happened fast enough that Y/n barely processed it before Trey’s hand closed briefly around his wrist to steady both him and the dishes. His grip was warm and gentle, a simple reflex; still, he didn’t let go when the dishes steadied.
Y/n became abruptly aware of how close Trey was standing, of vanilla lingering faintly on his clothes, of the fact that Trey’s hand was still around his wrist.
Mrs. Clover called loudly from the register, asking where extra receipt paper had gone, and the moment shattered.
Trey stepped back first, and Y/n carried the dishes into the kitchen with ears burning hot.
Closing shifts slowly became Y/n’s favorite part of the day. The bakery after hours felt softer somehow. The harsh noise of customers disappeared, leaving behind only humming refrigerators, warm kitchen lights, and the faint smell of sugar lingering in the air long after the ovens cooled.
One night, Y/n dragged chairs onto tables while Trey stood near the prep counter, scribbling ingredient adjustments into a notebook. Y/n slowed while passing, watching as Trey leaned slightly over the counter, glasses slipping lower on his nose while he tapped the end of his pencil absently against the page in thought. There’s flour across his sleeve again, and Y/n gazed for too long.
Trey glanced up, and Y/n promptly looked away, nearly walking directly into the pantry wall. Trey’s quiet laughter followed him down the hallway, the sound burrowing embarrassingly into Y/n’s chest for the rest of the evening.
A week later, Y/n arrived before sunrise, carrying two coffee cups. The bakery lights were barely on, and Trey stood alone in the kitchen measuring flour into a mixing bowl while soft music played faintly from an old radio nearby.
Y/n hovered awkwardly near the doorway for several seconds before holding out the extra coffee. Trey blinked once in visible surprise, then accepted it carefully. Their fingers brushed briefly against the paper cup, and Y/n muttered something halfway resembling “morning” before escaping toward the storage room.
Later, while restocking shelves, he glanced toward the kitchen and saw Trey drinking from the cup while reading inventory sheets. The sight left Y/n strangely warm for the rest of the shift.
Time passed differently inside the bakery after that, measured less by calendars and more by routines: fresh bread before dawn, crowded lunch rushes, rain against the windows during evening cleanup, and soft music humming quietly after closing.
Y/n learned where every ingredient belonged; learned how Mrs. Clover liked display trays arranged; learned that Mr. Clover tapped countertops while thinking through recipes; learned that Trey always rolled his sleeves unevenly when stressed.
And all the while, without meaning to, he kept drifting toward the kitchen—toward the warmth and smell of cinnamon.
The bakery is quiet except for the water running from the faucet. Y/n stands at the sink, washing dishes with rolled-up sleeves. He looks exhausted: there’s frosting near his wrist and dish soap on his cheek. Trey dried freshly cleaned pans beside him, and the silence stretched between them isn’t awkward anymore.
“You missed a spot,” Trey called out lightly. Y/n looked down to find his mistake, but Trey reached over, wiping the lingering suds of soap from Y/n’s cheek with his thumb. The movement was absentminded and automatic, but Y/n became completely still.
Trey pauses too late, realizing only afterward his invasion of personal space. “. . . Sorry,” he removed his hand from Y/n’s face, going back to his task at hand.
“No, it’s fine.” Y/n’s voice came out quieter than intended.
The kitchen suddenly felt very warm, and Trey cleared his throat. “You can head home after that dish,” he said, gesturing to the one currently in Y/n’s hands, ignoring the pile that still had yet to be cleaned. Y/n shook his head, “It’s okay, I don’t mind finishing this up.”
Trey glanced toward him, and Y/n continued scrubbing the dishes, yet his eyes would stray toward the kitchen behind them. Always the kitchen.
“You really do like baking that much, huh?”
Y/n laughed weakly, “I like the idea of it.”
Trey’s brows furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Y/n handed him a newly cleaned plate, searching for his next words. “I like making something for people, I guess,” he decided on, “Something warm,” he shrugged awkwardly. “Food’s kinda emotional if you think about it.”
Trey nodded, “That’s true.”
“Like, somebody could forget what you said to them that day, but they’ll remember how something tasted,” Y/n clarified, “or how it made them feel.” He stopped scrubbing. “I always thought that was nice.”
There was something melancholy underneath his words, subtle enough that most people might miss it. Trey didn’t. “You ever take classes?” he asked.
Y/n snorts softly, “Couldn’t afford them.”
Trey hummed, and a beat passed. Then, casually, he said, “I could teach you a little after closing if you want.”
Y/n blinked, certain that he misheard, “. . . What?” he nearly dropped the plate into the soapy abyss of the sink.
Trey shrugged one shoulder, “You stay late most of the time anyway.”
Y/n felt his face warm. “You’d really do that?”
“Of course.”
“Why?” Y/n’s question slipped out before he could stop it, and Trey paused briefly because he wasn’t entirely sure himself; somewhere over the last two weeks, Y/n stopped feeling like the new employee and instead an important factor in the rhythm of the bakery.
“You work hard,” Trey settled, “And you look at the kitchen like it hung the moon.”
Y/n stared at him, caught completely off guard by the sincerity. Trey shrugged again, “Figured somebody should help before you declare war on another batch of macarons.”
Y/n laughed helplessly, and Trey decided that he liked that sound far too much.
💚
After closing, the bakery always felt strangely softer. Without customers filling the space with noise, every sound became clearer with the low hum of refrigerators, the occasional clink of cooling trays settling on metal racks, and wind brushing gently against the building’s sturdy walls.
Warm yellow light spilled from the kitchen into the darkened room. Y/n hovered awkwardly near the prep counter while Trey organized ingredients with the casual ease of someone who had done this thousands of times before.
Everything was arranged neatly within reach: flour, sugar, butter, chocolate chips.
“You know, most people would be eager to start, rather than staring at the ingredients like they personally insulted them.” Trey smoothed down his apron, flashing Y/n an amused expression.
Y/n continued to stand there looking like he’d accidentally wandered into an exam he forgot to study for. “I’m mentally preparing,” he defended.
Trey raised an eyebrow, “For cookies?”
“You say that like cookies aren’t difficult,” Y/n deadpanned.
“Well, for you they are.”
“See?” Y/n pointed accusingly, “This is a hostile environment already.”
Trey laughed under his breath before walking over. “Turn around,” he asked politely. Y/n’s brows furrowed, “That sounds vaguely threatening.”
“Your apron’s untied,” Trey clarified. Y/n felt his face flush, and with an embarrassed “oh,” he turned around.
Trey gathered the loose strings behind his back, and the movement should’ve been normal, simple even. Except Trey stood close enough that Y/n could feel warmth through the thin fabric of his shirt while Trey tied the knot securely.
Fingers brushed briefly against his waist, steady hands. Vanilla lingered faintly on Trey’s clothes, and Y/n became abruptly aware of the fact that nobody should smell that nice while handling industrial amounts of butter daily.
“There,” Trey finished, and Y/n cleared his throat. “Thanks,” he stumbled out. Trey stepped back again like nothing happened, which somehow made the lingering warmth worse.
“Alright,” Trey slid a mixing bowl toward Y/n, “First lesson: mix butter, sugar, and eggs in this bowl.”
Y/n stared at the mixer suspiciously. “Why are you looking at it like that?” Trey asked.
“It looks violent.” Y/n’s eyes squinted.
“It’s a mixer,” Trey reasoned flatly.
“I don’t trust machinery.”
“You work the cash register.”
Y/n shuddered, “And every day I fear betrayal.”
Trey snorted softly, and the sound hit Y/n directly in the chest for absolutely no reason whatsoever.
“You’re weird,” Trey eventually said.
“And you offered to teach me anyway,” Y/n fired back, reading over the cookie recipe, starting with the sugar measurement.
“I’m questioning that decision already,” Trey jokingly said. Y/n smiled despite himself, then immediately sent sugar flying across half the counter while trying to level off the measurement.
Silence followed, and Trey blinked slowly.
“. . . That didn’t happen,” Y/n said.
“I watched it happen in real time,” Trey replied.
“No witnesses,” Y/n pointed the measuring cup at Trey, “They’ll never believe you.”
“Y/n, there’s sugar in your hair.” To further his argument, Trey’s eyes strayed to the top of Y/n’s head, where sugar had most certainly made a home.
Y/n groaned dramatically into his hands, and Trey looked dangerously close to laughing. “C’mere,” he beckoned, and Y/n peeked up. Trey reached forward before brushing sugar lightly from Y/n’s hair. A straightforward, completely innocent gesture—still, Y/n froze impeccably. Because Trey’s hand lingered slightly longer than necessary near his temple, and Trey seemed to realize it at the same time Y/n did.
Both of them pulled back almost imperceptibly afterward, and Trey cleared his throat. “You pack sugar too tightly, by the way.”
“You changed the subject aggressively,” Y/n said, yet took the constructive criticism with all its connotations.
“You noticed aggressively,” Trey argued lightly.
Y/n laughed under his breath while Trey showed him how to properly level the measuring cup. Their shoulders bumped occasionally as they worked, sometimes by accident, sometimes maybe not entirely.
Y/n quickly discovered that Trey was a very hands-on teacher—not in an overbearing way, just instinctively physical when explaining things. Like a hand briefly steadying Y/n’s wrist while whisking, fingers nudging the angle of the spatula, or standing close enough behind him to reach around for ingredients.
Each touch was casual and brief, yet somehow capable of ruining Y/n’s ability to think normally for several seconds afterward.
At one point, Trey handed him a spoonful of cookie dough. “Taste test,” he offered.
Y/n hesitated slightly before taking it. He paused considerably, “. . . Maybe more salt?” The uncertainty in his voice made Trey glance sideways at him. “Maybe?”
Y/n shrugged, “I don’t know; it just feels like it needs something.”
Trey tasted the dough himself thoughtfully. “Actually, yeah.”
Y/n blinked.
“You caught that fast,” he continued, and Y/n looked strangely surprised by the praise, like he genuinely hadn’t expected to be right.
The cookies baked while rain continued outside in soft, steady waves. Y/n sat cross-legged on the prep counter afterward while Trey cleaned dishes beside him.
“You really grew up here?” Y/n asked, and Trey nodded without looking up, “Pretty much.”
“That explains why you act forty-two,” Y/n said teasingly. That made Trey stop in his washing spree. “I’m nineteen,” he argued.
“Mentally?” Y/n raised a brow, “forty-two.”
Trey glanced over dryly, “Says the guy who apologized to a loaf of bread earlier.”
Y/n gasped in mock offense, “It fell unexpectedly.”
Trey rested his hip against the sink. “You said—and I quote—I’m sorry for failing you.”
“It was a stressful moment.” Trey laughed properly this time, warm and open. Y/n stared for half a second too long, and Trey noticed.
The timer rang loudly enough to startle both of them. Y/n nearly fell off the counter, and Trey burst into laughter.
“Don’t laugh!” Y/n chastised, flustered, “I thought something exploded!”
“You jumped like the oven declared war.” Trey threw a hand over his mouth to dilute his amusement.
“You said baking was unforgiving!” Trey laughed more as he pulled the cookies from the oven.
Somehow, by the end of the night, Y/n realized two very dangerous things simultaneously: One—he genuinely loved baking with Trey, and two—Trey Clover smiled with his whole face when he laughed.
Y/n realized that this was becoming a serious problem.
💚
The storm had settled fully over the city by then. Rain battered steadily against the bakery windows while distant thunder rolled somewhere beyond the streets outside. Every so often, lightning flashed pale blue through the glass before disappearing again beneath the warm golden glow of the kitchen lights.
Inside, the bakery smelled overwhelmingly of butter, cinnamon, and baked fruit. Y/n stood at the prep counter, aggressively losing a fight against pie dough.
“Why is it sticking again?” He groaned, his arms growing tired from the constant kneading.
Trey glanced over without looking particularly concerned, “Because you keep packing flour every time it scares you.”
“It does scare me,” Y/n confirmed, resisting the urge to add even more flour.
“It’s dough,” Trey deadpanned.
“It’s malicious dough, that’s what it is,” Y/n combated, causing Trey to snort softly while continuing to organize measuring spoons beside him.
Y/n narrowed his eyes suspiciously, “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Watching you threaten inanimate objects?” Trey shrugged, “Little bit.”
Y/n whined, “I’m being psychologically tormented.”
“By pastry?”
Y/n glared at him, though the look lacked any real malice. “Yes.”
Trey mocked sympathy, “That’s embarrassing for you.”
Y/n gasped dramatically and pointed the rolling pin at him accusingly, “You invited me here under the promise of guidance and support!”
Trey put the last spoon in place, “And you got both.”
“I got judged,” Y/n denied. Trey crossed his arms across his chest, leaning against the counter, “You called pie crust structurally aggressive five minutes ago.”
“Because it is.” Trey laughed again, warm and effortless. The sound curled through Y/n’s chest in a way that felt maddenly unfair.
Y/n had started noticing that recently—how easy it was becoming to center himself around Trey’s reactions. The slight lift of his mouth when amused, the low laugh he only really used after closing hours, the way he softened visibly whenever Y/n had succeeded at something.
It was becoming a problem. . .a serious one.
Trey finally stepped over, taking pity on the massacre happening on the counter. “Move,” he instructed.
“Rude,” Y/n puffed his cheeks as he shifted sideways, letting Trey examine the dough with the concentration of a man assessing severe injuries.
“Okay,” Trey eventually said, “here.” Instead of taking over completely, Trey stepped behind Y/n. And immediately, Y/n stopped functioning because Trey was suddenly everywhere. Warmth at his back, flour-dusted sleeves brushing lightly against his arms, and the smell of vanilla lingering faintly on his clothes again.
Trey reached around him slowly, placing his hands carefully over Y/n’s wrists. “Relax your grip.” his voice came quieter this close, almost beneath the rain, “You’re fighting it too hard.”
Y/n swallowed hard, loosening his grip as Trey guided the rolling pin gently. With every push and turn, he applied even pressure, and their hands moved together slowly while rain hummed softly outside.
“Feel the difference?” Trey questioned.
“Mhm,” Y/n replied Lethargically.
Trey sighed, “You’re not paying attention.”
“I’m trying very hard, actually.” Trey laughed under his breath, the sound brushing directly beside Y/n’s ear.
The feeling nearly killed him on the spot. “Your teaching methods are unethical.”
“Because I’m correcting your technique?”
“Because you’re standing this close on purpose.” The words slipped out before Y/n could stop them. Silence followed, and Trey’s hands paused over his wrists.
Y/n felt heat crawl violently into his face. “Forget I said that.”
“Can’t really do that now,” Trey said, an amused lilt to his voice.
“Please try,” Y/n practically begged.
Trey laughed softly again, “You’re flustered.”
Y/n suppressed a squeak, “And you’re observant.”
“Cute.” Y/n physically stopped breathing for a second. Trey seemed to realize what he’d said immediately afterward because suddenly he looked quite flustered too.
Y/n turned his head slightly, enough to accidentally become very aware of how close Trey’s face actually was. Too close, dangerously close.
Neither moved, and the kitchen suddenly felt much warmer than before. Trey’s gaze flickered downward briefly. . .to Y/n’s mouth. . .then right back up again.
Y/n’s pulse stumbled hard enough that he was fairly certain it became audible, and somehow, impossibly, it looked as if Trey could hear it loud and clear.
Then the timer exploded loudly behind them, and both jumped violently apart. Y/n’s back hit the counter, and Trey cursed under his breath while grabbing the oven mitts.
“OH, MY GOD.” Trey burst into laughter at Y/n’s exclamation.
“You look genuinely betrayed,” Trey said as he turned off the oven.
“Because we were having a moment!” Y/n proclaimed, pointing accusingly toward the oven, “Your appliances are evil.” Trey laughed harder at that, to the point where he bent slightly over the counter. And Y/n stared helplessly for a second because Trey rarely laughed like that around other people.
Trey finally caught his breath while removing the brownies (they decided to make those before tackling the retched pie) from the oven. “Okay,” he gave in, “maybe we were having a moment.”
Y/n crossed his arms, “Thank you for acknowledging my suffering.”
Trey glanced sideways at him while setting the brownies down to cool. “You know, normal people don't flirt-fight over pastries.”
Y/n raised a brow. “You say 'normal people' like either of us qualify,” he deadpanned.
Trey hummed thoughtfully, “Fair point.”
The tension softened afterward—not gone, but warmer now. Y/n leaned back against the prep counter while Trey cut two small squares out of the mass of brownie, placing them both on a plate. Steam curled upward softly beneath the kitchen lights, and Trey handed Y/n a fork carefully. Their fingers brushed, lingering longer than normal.
Y/n tasted his portion of brownie, pausing before saying, “. . . Too sweet.” Trey tasted it himself, then blinked, “. . . You’re right.”
Y/n looked surprised, like he genuinely hadn’t expected his own judgement to be correct. Trey watched that expression carefully as something quiet settled into his chest.
Y/n always doubted himself first, always.
Trey stepped closer unconsciously, and Y/n looked up slowly. Rain softened outside into a steady hush, and neither of them spoke for several seconds.
“This would make a really good romance movie scene.” Y/n broke the silence, fiddling with his brownie bite before taking another piece.
“The pie scene?” Trey raised an eyebrow.
Y/n shrugged, “Yeah.”
“It’s a little too flour-covered for cinema.”
“Nah,” Y/n brushed off, “That’s cinema.”
Trey chuckled serenely, and by the Seven, Y/n wanted to keep hearing that sound forever.
The amusement faded afterward, leaving behind something gentler, more precarious. Y/n’s eyes drifted downward again, and Trey noticed, his own gaze lowering.
Y/n could feel his pulse in his throat now as Trey’s hand lifted slightly, as if he was thinking about touching Y/n’s face. Y/n’s breathing turned uneven instantly.
One more second, maybe less, and Y/n panicked completely. Before he could overthink himself into oblivion, he leaned forward quickly and pressed a soft kiss against Trey’s cheek. The action was warm and brief, gone almost immediately.
The second Y/n realized what he’d done, he jerked backward like he’d touched a live wire. “Okay. . .cool.” his eyes wandered literally anywhere beside Trey’s. “That happened.”
Trey stared at him, utterly speechless.
“I’m gonna go die quietly now.” Y/n tried walking away, but Trey caught him by the sleeve of his apron before he could escape. Y/n stopped, slowly turning back around.
Trey still looked startled, but there was also unmistakable fondness spreading slowly across his face now, warm enough to make Y/n’s chest ache.
“You kissed me,” Trey stated.
“I’m aware,” Y/n lamented.
“That was bold.”
Y/n grimaced, “I’ve made several mistakes tonight.”
Trey laughed softly, and Y/n buried his face dramatically into his hands. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he whined.
“Like what?” Trey asked jocosely.
“Like you think this is funny.”
“Because it is funny.” Y/n only buried his face deeper in his hands, groaning loudly enough to echo throughout the kitchen.
Trey only laughed again.
💚
It was nearly one in the morning when Y/n finally admitted the truth.
The bakery had long since closed, and only the kitchen remained lit while once-bustling streets outside whispered quaintly.
Y/n stood at the prep counter, whisking strawberry glaze with far too much concentration. Trey noticed, mostly because Y/n had been whisking the same bowl continuously for the last seven minutes.
Trey dried another dish slowly, “You know, eventually that glaze is gonna become self-aware.”
Y/n startled slightly, “I’m thinking.”
“That’s a dangerous late-night activity,” Trey commented, and a laugh escaped Y/n, small and tired around the edges.
Trey set the towel aside before walking over. “Taste it for me,” he asked.
Y/n froze, the whisk stopping halfway through another turn, and silence filled the kitchen faintly.
Trey’s expression gentled. “Y/n,” he said.
Y/n stared down into the glaze bowl for several long seconds before laughing under his breath, sounding exhausted. “You figured it out, huh?” he asked.
Trey shrugged, “Some of it.”
Y/n swallowed hard, then set the whisk down carefully. “When I was eight, I got really sick,” he admitted, “And afterward, food stopped tasting normal.” His fingers tightened around the counter’s edge, “Sweet things barely taste sweet unless there’s too much sugar; fruit tastes too sharp; chocolate tastes bitter most of the time.” His voice lowered further, embarrassed now. “Vanilla barely tastes like anything anymore,” he laughed weakly, “which is ironic considering I work in a bakery now.”
“Y/n—”
“No, it’s objectively funny in a tragic way,” Y/n cut off, and Trey snorted despite himself. Y/n smiled faintly before taking on a more somber expression. “Everybody talks about baking like flavor’s instinctive; like you’re supposed to know when something tastes balanced.” His eyes lowered. “I never do.”
The confession hurt Trey more than expected because Y/n sounded genuinely ashamed of it.
He shrugged, “So I learned to fake it instead by memorizing reactions, expressions, and body language.”
Trey recalled all of the times Y/n studied his face while tasting pastries. It was never a casual act, but careful, as if searching for answers.
“That’s why I watch you so much when you taste things,” he recoiled before adding, “Which sounds way creepier out loud.”
Trey laughed gently, warm enough that Y/n visibly relaxed a little. “I know what you mean,” he comforted.
Y/n groaned into his hands, “I’m handling this conversation terribly.”
“You’re doing fine,” Trey offered.
“I’m actively sweating.”
“That’s because you’re panicking.”
Y/n gestured a shaky hand gun toward Trey, “Correct.”
Trey smiled powerlessly before stepping closer slowly, giving Y/n plenty of room to pull away if he wanted.
He didn’t.
“Look at me,” Trey requested delicately. Y/n hesitated, then did. He immediately looked like he regretted it because Trey’s expression had softened completely. He was devoid of pity and discomfort, only showing care.
“Do you know how hard you’ve worked to adapt?” Y/n shook his head weakly at the question.
“Most people would’ve quit.” Trey moved closer still, “You didn’t.” His voice softened further, “You taught yourself texture, smell, and temperature.” A tiny smile touched his mouth, “Pure stubbornness apparently.” That startled a weak laugh out of Y/n, and Trey’s smile widened at the sound.
“That’s not weakness.” Something in Y/n’s expression cracked at that, and he looked away quickly, bringing a hand to cover the bottom of his face.
“I hate crying in front of people,” he murmured.
“Yeah, I know,” Trey said, gentle enough to ache. He reached up slowly before brushing his thumb beneath Y/n’s eye carefully. Y/n leaned into the touch instinctively, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
“You don’t have to fake things with me anymore,” Trey offered, “if you’re unsure, we figure it out together.”
Together. Y/n stared at him helplessly for one suspended moment, then suddenly—
He kissed him. Directly on the mouth in a quick, awkward, entirely panic-driven motion.
The second Y/n processed what he’d done, his soul visibly left his body. He jerked backward so fast he nearly smacked directly into the counter behind him. “I’M SO SORRY,” he blurted.
Trey blinked, processing what just happened while Y/n continued to spiral.
“I don’t know why I did that—” he flushed so red he looked identical to a cherry tart “—actually I do know why I did that, which is somehow worse—”
Trey simply stared at him now.
“You were being supportive, and I panicked, and apparently my fight-or-flight response is kissing people now—”
Trey laughed. Not mocking, just candidly startled and fond and a little overwhelmed all at once.
Y/n covered his face, “Please let me evaporate peacefully.”
“Y/n—”
“I can literally never work here again,” he continued.
“You absolutely can,” Trey denied.
“No, because now every time you look at me I’m gonna remember I assaulted you during a vulnerable moment—”
Trey laughed, bending slightly at the waist. Y/n stared at him in betrayal through his fingers. “Why is this funny to you?!”
Trey finally stepped forward again, still smiling despairingly. “Because you think kissing me is a crime apparently.”
“I kissed you without warning! It’s entirely different!” Y/n flushed impossibly more.
“Yeah,” Trey said simply.
“That’s bad!”
Trey gently pulled Y/n’s hands away from his face, warm fingers wrapping loosely around his wrists. “You know you don’t actually have to apologize for kissing me, right?”
Y/n froze completely, and Trey stepped closer again, close enough that Y/n’s uneven breathing fanned gently against the other’s face. “I probably would’ve done it eventually anyway.”
Y/n stared at him, buffering. Trey merely smiled, “Though maybe with less emotional damage.”
Y/n laughed despite himself, the relief hitting so hard it almost looked painful. Trey watched him quietly for another second, then finally lifted one hand gently to Y/n’s jaw. His thumb brushed softly against Y/n’s cheek, and Y/n’s breath caught.
Trey gave him plenty of time to move away, but he didn’t. So Trey leaned down slowly and kissed Y/n properly, warm and careful. Y/n nearly squeaked, squeezing his eyes shut before visibly melting from the contact.
One hand tightened weakly in the front of Trey’s apron while Trey’s free hand settled carefully against Y/n’s waist.
The kiss deepened slightly after that, unhurried yet certain. Nothing was rushed, and neither panicked this time. Just warmth and flour and gentle wind against the windows as Trey kissed Y/n like he actually wanted to.
When they finally pulled apart, Y/n looked completely dazed.
Trey smiled softly. “Better?” he whispered.
Y/n blinked once, “I think I just died, actually.”
Trey laughed quietly against his forehead before kissing him once more, small and quick. This time, Y/n kissed him back without apologizing afterward.
💚
The next morning felt unreal. Not because Y/n kissed Trey. . . Well, partially because of that.
Actually, overwhelmingly because of that.
Y/n had spent the entire walk to work replaying the previous night in horrifying detail: the accidental kiss, the apologizing, the second kiss. The fact that Trey had kissed him back. . . Multiple times.
Which meant Y/n was now entering the bakery with the full awareness that he had somehow crossed from “emotionally attached employee” into whatever terrifying thing existed between him and Trey now.
He nearly walked directly into the front door because he was too busy panicking internally.
Mrs. Clover noticed immediately. “Morning, sweetheart,” she greeted slowly.
“Good morning,” Y/n scrambled. Mrs. Clover narrowed her eyes. “Why do you look like you’ve personally met the Queen of Hearts?”
Y/n choked violently on absolutely nothing. At that exact moment, Trey emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of fresh pastries. Their eyes met instantly, and somehow that made everything worse because Trey looked potently amused.
Y/n looked away first, far too quickly. Mrs. Clover’s eyes moved slowly between them, then narrowed further.
Trey walked past toward the display case, calm and composed. Meanwhile, Y/n stood beside the counter, looking one mild inconvenience away from spontaneous combustion.
Mr. Clover entered from the kitchen carrying boxes of ingredients. He paused immediately. “Why does the atmosphere feel weird?”
“No idea." Trey shrugged easily. Y/n suddenly became extremely interested in reorganizing napkins, and Mrs. Clover continued staring thoughtfully at both of them. Then, very slowly. . .she smiled.
Oh no. Y/n was filled with dread and embarrassment.
The morning rush thankfully arrived before she could say anything catastrophic. Customers filled the bakery steadily for the next several hours while Y/n worked the front counter, trying very hard not to think about Trey every fifteen seconds.
Which was quite difficult, to say the least, because Trey kept brushing past him casually in the narrow kitchen doorway, kept handing him dishes with fingers lingering longer than necessary, and kept glancing over whenever Y/n laughed at something.
Every tiny interaction felt intentional now, different. And Y/n was becoming increasingly convinced he might die from it.
By early afternoon, the bakery had finally quieted again. Y/n wiped down tables while Mrs. Clover counted receipts at the counter. Trey and Mr. Clover worked in the kitchen preparing another batch of pastries for the evening crowd.
Y/n looked toward the kitchen automatically, the gesture habitual by now. He watched Trey as he adjusted frosting consistency beside his father while flour dusted lightly across his apron.
Then Trey glanced up and caught Y/n staring. He smiled, small, soft, and entirely unfair.
Y/n almost walked directly into a chair. Mrs. Clover saw the entire thing. “Oh, this is adorable,” she giggled.
Y/n physically startled, “What is adorable?”
The woman merely shrugged, “Nothing.” Which obviously meant everything. Y/n groaned quietly into his hands.
Mr. Clover leaned halfway out of the kitchen. “Did something happen?” he asked abruptly.
“Oh, definitely,” the woman replied mischievously.
“Mom,” Trey chastised kindly.
“What?” Mrs. Clover asked defensively, “I’m just observing.”
Trey looked deeply tired suddenly, and Y/n wanted the earth to open beneath him.
Instead, Mrs. Clover straightened abruptly and clapped her hands once. “Alright, I’ve made a decision.” Everyone looked at her, including a confused elderly customer near the window.
Mrs. Clover pointed directly at Y/n, “I’m giving you kitchen privileges.”
Y/n blinked, “. . . I’m sorry?”
“You’ve been helping after hours for weeks. Your consistency’s improved, your prep work’s gotten better, and Trey hasn’t complained once.”
Trey raised a brow. “That’s your qualification standard?”
“It’s a very high standard actually,” she defended, causing Trey to snort softly and Mr. Clover to nod along.
Y/n still looked stunned, “Wait, you mean actually helping in the kitchen?”
Mr. Clover crossed his arms thoughtfully before nodding, “Could use an extra pair of hands during rushes,” he reasoned.
Y/n stared at them, speechless. Trey watched the realization slowly hit him: the disbelief first, then the excitement, then the immediate panic.
“What if I mess something up?”
Mrs. Clover waved a dismissive hand, “Then you’ll remake it.”
“What if I ruin inventory?”
“Then Trey yells dramatically for ten minutes,” Mr. Clover shrugged.
“I do not yell dramatically,” Trey denied fondly.
Mr. and Mrs. Clover both looked at him silently.
Trey paused, “. . . Okay, maybe sometimes.”
Y/n laughed before catching himself, “Wait, so you’re serious?”
Mrs. Clover softened, “Honey, you already belong back there.” Her words hit harder than she probably realized. Y/n’s expression shifted, taking on a smaller, more vulnerable state.
Mrs. Clover noticed, and her voice tempered further, “You work hard. You care about this bakery, and frankly, anyone willing to clean frosting out of our industrial mixer without complaining deserves financial compensation.”
Y/n laughed weakly, and Mr. Clover nodded solemnly. “That thing has claimed stronger men,” he shivered.
“Dad talks about the mixer like it's a war veteran.” Trey crossed his arms over his chest.
“Because I respect it,” Mr. Clover clarified.
Mrs. Clover rolled her eyes affectionately, and Y/n laughed again, easier this time.
Trey couldn't stop looking at him because Y/n looked happy, really happy. Not nervous nor uncertain, but warm and bright in a way Trey had slowly become addicted to seeing.
Then Mrs. Clover’s eyes flicked between them again, dangerously observant. “Also, it’ll save Trey from staring mournfully at the kitchen doorway every time Y/n works front counter shifts.”
Trey coughed, and Y/n turned a violent shade of red. “Mom,” he groaned.
“What?” she played innocent, “Am I wrong?”
Trey looked genuinely betrayed, and Mr. Clover burst into laughter. Y/n bent over the counter in horror. “I'm quitting,” he bemoaned.
“You literally just got promoted,” Trey said.
“It'll be a dramatic quitting, then,” Y/n sufficed.
Trey laughed despite himself, and Y/n looked up instinctively at the sound. The moment settled softly—still embarrassing, of course—but easier now, like something between them had finally stopped hiding.
💚
The bakery was quiet again by the time they finished closing.
A gentle breeze drifted slowly outside the windows while warm kitchen light reflected gold across stacks of freshly cleaned dishes.
Y/n stood beside the sink with rolled-up sleeves, washing dishes while Trey dried them beside him.
Exactly where they started all those weeks ago, only now everything felt different; comfortable and certain.
Y/n bumped his shoulder lightly against Trey’s while handing over another dish. “Your mother’s trying to kill us psychologically,” he said, amused.
“She likes you,” Trey replied.
“And she publicly exposed you.”
Trey shrugged, “Honestly? Could be worse.”
Y/n blinked, “Worse than “staring mournfully?”” he quoted, wiggling his eyebrows.
Trey considered briefly, “She once showed my middle school haircut to customers,” he confessed.
Y/n gasped, “And you survived that?”
Trey adjusted his glasses, his face taking on a wincing expression, “Barely.”
Y/n laughed quietly while rinsing another bowl, the sound echoing softly through the warm kitchen. Trey watched him for a second longer than necessary, still not entirely used to this.
Y/n caught him staring eventually. “What?” he asked.
Trey went back to drying, “Nothing.”
“That's a lie.”
Trey smiled faintly, “Maybe a little.”
Y/n rolled his eyes lightly before flicking water toward him from the sink. An instant mistake, really.
Trey looked down slowly at the droplets hitting his apron, then back up, dangerously calm. Y/n immediately pointed at him, “Don't you dare.”
Trey dipped his fingers directly into the sink.
“Trey.”
“Actions have consequences.” The other merely smirked.
The water fight lasted approximately twelve seconds before Mrs. Clover yelled from the front that if they flooded her kitchen, she'd “sell both of them for spare flour.”
Silence followed before both bots burst into laughter simultaneously. Y/n leaned heavily against the counter, laughing into his hands while Trey nearly dropped a plate, trying not to laugh harder.
And suddenly Y/n realized something quietly devastating: that this felt like home now—the warmth, the late nights, the dishes, Trey beside him, all of it.
Their laughter softened gradually, leaving behind something impossibly quieter. Y/n looked over, and Trey was already watching him. The action wasn't casual, but fond in a way that made Y/n’s chest tighten impeccably.
Y/n stepped closer first this time, no longer nervous. Water still dropped faintly from his sleeve, and Trey set the dish towel down slowly.
“You know, we really started with dishwashing,” Y/n reminisced.
Trey hummed, “And emotional disasters involving pie.”
Y/n groaned, “Don't remind me.”
Trey laughed, the sound worming its way into Y/n’s chest. Then Trey reached up, brushing a damp strand of hair away from Y/n’s forehead.
The touch lingered, and Y/n leaned into it. He chuckled gently, “. . . Hi.”
Trey smiled, “Hi.” And then he kissed Y/n in a motion that was neither rushed nor hesitant, just familiar warmth beneath golden kitchen light.
Y/n melted into it, wrapping his arms around Trey’s middle while Trey’s hand rested against his cheek, the other behind his neck.
The kiss was slow and certain, like they'd already decided this was where they belonged.
When they finally pulled apart, Y/n stayed close enough that their foreheads brushed together.
“To think just yesterday you were fumbling for an apology after kissing me.” Trey smiled.
“Well, safe to say you make me nervous,” Y/n replied, causing Trey to laugh softly against his mouth before kissing him once more, their warmth and affection lasting long after the bakery lights finally went out.
💚