Cinnamon & Chaos

Cinnamon & Chaos

The bell above the door jingled as he stepped into the bakery, shaking off the rain like a wet dog. The smell of cinnamon and coffee wrapped around him, warm and familiar, but the woman behind the counter? Less so.

She barely spared him a glance, her hands deftly dusting flour off a tray of freshly baked rolls. "If you're going to drip all over my floor, at least make it look intentional."

He grinned, wringing out his sleeve. "Oh, I always aim to make an impression."

"Mm. A puddle is a bold choice." She slid a tray into the display case, her movements precise, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes.

He leaned against the counter, smirking. "Well, I could try leaving a different kind of impression. Handprint, maybe? Right here—" he gestured to the counter, then let his fingers hover in the air between them just a moment too long before adding, "Or, you know, somewhere warmer."

She snorted but didn’t look up. "You talk a big game for a man who just lost a fight with the weather."

"Technically, the rain won, but I’m filing an appeal." He nodded toward the cinnamon rolls cooling on the tray. "Though I see you're still engaged in an ongoing battle with dough."

She gasped, clutching her chest in mock offense. "How dare you. These rolls are my greatest achievement."

He tapped a finger against the glass display case. "Then I suppose they deserve a proper evaluation."

She slid a cinnamon roll toward him, but not quite within reach. "One free taste… but only if you admit mine are better than whatever sad, store-bought nonsense you usually put in your mouth."

He quirked a brow. "Funny, I was just about to make the same offer to you."

For a fraction of a second, neither of them moved. The air between them thickened—or maybe that was just the steam from the oven.

She cleared her throat first, breaking eye contact. "Right. Well. Enjoy your roll."

He picked it up and took a slow bite, chewing with exaggerated thoughtfulness.

"Oh, wow. This is… warm, gooey, melts in your mouth. Just the right amount of spice." He paused, then looked at her, holding her gaze this time. "You put a lot of yourself into these, don’t you?"

She nearly dropped the tray she was holding.

"I—uh—excuse me?"

He grinned, slow and deliberate. "I just mean, they’ve got… layers. A little rough around the edges but soft where it counts."

Her eyes narrowed. "You’re dangerously close to calling me doughy."

"Never. I would never imply that you’re—" He paused, raking his gaze over her, smirking. "—pliable."

She opened her mouth to fire back—and then he knocked his elbow against a coffee cup. The cup wobbled, teetered, and—

"Don’t you dare—"

He lunged, catching it midair, nearly toppling onto the counter in the process.

"Ha! Reflexes like a—"

SPLASH.

His foot landed directly in a mop bucket.

She covered her mouth, but he could see her shaking with laughter.

"You were saying something about reflexes?"

Sighing, he lifted his drenched shoe out of the bucket, water dripping onto the tile. "I was saying: what an absolute privilege it is to be here in your fine establishment."

She shook her head, still grinning, as he turned toward the door, attempting a graceful exit—only to freeze halfway.

"...I forgot my jacket."

Without a word, she picked it up and handed it to him. Their fingers brushed, barely more than a whisper of contact, but he felt the heat of it. So did she, apparently, because her expression shifted—just for a second.

"Sure you don’t want to leave something else behind?" she asked, her voice softer now. "A shoe, maybe? Give yourself an excuse to come back."

His fingers curled around the jacket. He held her gaze, let the moment stretch.

"Who says I need an excuse?"

Then he pulled his jacket on and stepped back into the rain.

She watched him go, absently pressing her fingers to her palm—as if she could still feel the ghost of his touch.