you're so dark

It’s hard to believe in faith or mere coincidences, but the world can be peculiar like that sometimes. A sweet man by the name Owen Sharma had opened a restaurant next door to your bakery, after only recently having lost his beautiful Hannah (as you would learn later on).

So it starts off as anything does, with two strangers. Two broken people with nothing but their passion for cooking and their will to live life to the fullest, in the name of those who they loved most. From that, a beautiful friendship. And from that… perhaps something more. 

There’s an unspoken agreement that every Thursday morning you’ll bring him a batch of your freshly baked goods. And in turn, every Friday night you’d close up early and Owen would cook a lovely dinner for you at his restaurant. 

Every time you’d pretend to skim over the menu, as if you weren’t about to order the same thing you always did. It had happened often enough that he would eventually have most of it prepared before you even arrived. 

And still, he would take a seat at the table to pour some wine for the both of you and ask the same question. “Whats the verdict then?”  He’d tease, as if he didn’t already know you adored everything he cooked. 

You dont remember when you had switched night outs with live music and drinks for nights with Owen, but it happens naturally. Those few hours with him talking about everything and nothing all at once quickly became your favorite part of the week.

But tonight, it’s different. It’s almost closing time for him and you are no where to be seen. Your half-cooked meal is sitting in his kitchen lonely and untouched. And he can’t help it, how that gloomy feeling floods up his being as he checks anxiously at his watch hopelessly hoping that the pointers are wrong somehow. 

One of his waiters lets him know that the lights to your bakery are still on, so its right then that he makes a hasty decision to finish cooking. 

He snickers at himself as he pours the finished product inside a small box, finds it unbelievable that it’s only the first time that you had not showed up on a Friday night and he already feels like his weekend is incomplete before it’s even begun. 

The streets of Paris are heavy with excitement, locals and tourists are basking in the warmth of the street lights as Owen steps outside, closes up the restaurant and begins his path next door to your bakery. 

It’s when he peaks inside through the glass that he notices a man leaning on the counter speaking to you. He doesn’t know what he was expecting to see, but it certainly wasn’t that. 

The unpleasant feeling deep in his stomach as he watches you laugh brightly at something the stranger had said catches him off guard, makes his jaw twitch. It leaves no time for rational thinking as he opens the door to your shop on impulse. 

Despite the turmoil inside of him, he steps inside quite cautiously, as if not to interrupt the conversation. 

“Owen!” You exclaim giddily as soon as you get a glimpse of him. And if he weren’t so busy examining the face of the stranger when he turned around in surprise, he might have noticed how your eyes were gleaming at him and your cheeks were flushing. The tell-tale signs of the effect he has on you. 

And right away, he feels like a complete arse. Since you proceed to introduce not only the stranger in front of you but another next to you as your old college friends. 

Of course they are. He thinks, as he bids his hellos and introduces himself to your kind and sweet friends. Suddenly he’s incredibly grateful he has an excuse to be barging in. 

“Thought I’d bring this to you love” He says, stalking towards the counter  with a bashful smile to hand over a small box containing your favorite meal from his place. 

And god does the small gesture cause you to warm up from head to toe.

“That’s so sweet of you. You didn’t have to.“ You say, but your tone betrays the truth of how spoiled you are. Owen had spoiled you rotten.  

Something that both of your friends know by now. Because of course you’ve told them about the devastatingly handsome chef that works next door. Of course you’ve told them that with each passing week you’re growing closer to just inviting him over to yours. See where that leads.

So with knowing smiles they’re quick to make excuses as to why they have to leave the premises. And for a moment you think you might have to scream at them to control their faces, but thankfully Owen’s eyes remain on you as they walk out. 

“Sorry I couldn’t make it today. This order i accidentally screwed up-“ You mumble, worrying he thought you would ever ever forget to pay him a visit. “My friends, they were just keeping me company.” 

And he blushes, feels ashamed that he would cause you to think you owed him any explanation whatsoever. “It’s alright sweetheart. No need to apologize.” The nickname alone is enough to make you wobble at the knees. 

Theres a comfortable silence right after thats interrupted by the sound of your timer signaling its time to take the goods out of the oven. 

“Need some help?” He asks, not waiting for an answer before removing his winter coat and sliding off his wool scarf. 

Was he an angel sent from god or something? 

***

Owen follows your every move and direction as he helps out, a great student to your icing and decorating teachings. A little too great actually.

"You done this before?" You finally ask, his perfect technique with the piping bag making you grow a bit jealous. It’s satirical, since you know he graduated from a very fancy culinary art school at some point. 

He laughs a bright laugh, "That bad is it?" 

"Gonna come for my job next" You tease, bumping shoulders against him playfully, to see if you can make him mess up for once. He doesn’t, his hands steady as ever. Damn him. 

“Y’joking? and never eat that lemon tart again?" He asks, feigning offense with a scrunched up face and a scoff at the hypothetical situation. "Sounds dreadful.”

And needless to say, he makes you laugh. He always does.

But abruptly, his tone has a weight to it, and theres a tender but still intense look in his eyes, “Id miss it too much" He says, leaning in closer to bump his shoulder to yours in return. 

Owen’s charming but timid demeanor made you think at first that it was probably you who held the upper hand with the subtle wooing. But with comments like this, he leaves you unarmed in ways you never thought possible. 

You want to ask him what he means by it, but the words get caught in your throat. Because you absolutely know what it means. 

From the moment you two had met, you noticed how fast you had been drawn to each other. Even then, when it still felt as if you were betraying the people who were no longer in this world with you. 

You understood each-other like no one else did, every shared conversation a reminder of how truly not alone you both were. Every kiss on the cheek goodbye making the craving you both have worsen. 

And it drives you to the brink of insanity, because you are desperate for him to act on it. But you can tell he’s not one to do so without having been explicitly asked first. 

So when you’re both finally finished with the batch of baked goods and he’s uttering some horrible joke to make you giggle once more, you are unable to stop your movements towards his tall frame. In a rush, your hands tangle on his shirt to bring him down to your level and smash his lips against yours. 

He makes a startled noise but his own hands are quick to cup at your face as well, leaving your cheeks smudged with the remnant baking ingredients on his fingertips. To be fair, you had done the same to his clothes. 

When he's tongue finally slips into your mouth, its hard for you to tell if the addicting taste to it is the powdered sugar remains getting mixed with your connecting mouths or if it’s just the sweetness of him.

Owen lifts you up to place you on one of the unoccupied counters inside the kitchen and your brain short-circuits with how he seems to handle you around with such ease. 

Scrambling for any sort of advantage, you try and make him blush with a scandalized rendition of his name. 

But when he makes no audible sound and just closes in on you with so much want that his eyebrows are furrowing as if he’s in pain, theres no more talking. Theres no more patience or clear thinking. 

Theres only you begging for him to have you right there, in a fumble of barely understandable pleads against his lips. And thank god, he does. 

Owen is good, so earth shatteringly earnest and observant. He mirrors every gasp, every moan as if he were experiencing your own pleasure himself just by looking at you.

The way his hair drops on his forehead and his lips fall slack leaves you at a lost for words with how beautiful he is. In the past, you even thought it to be unfair, that someone so sweet and kind could also be so devastatingly beautiful. Like his mere existence was a cruel trick.

But he’s not, he’s there living and breathing and so utterly perfect. 

It’s too much. He’s too much. Your eyes snap shut in an effort to keep your sanity. A curse falling from your lips with a gasp when his hand falls to your most sensitive part in aid of his thrusts.

"Please, sweetheart-" He says, voice breathless. “Keep those eyes on me, yeah?”

When his relentless touch and his attentive stare winds you up to an impossible crescendo, you have only a few ounces of effort left to let him know you’re close. To give him a warning. 

“Owen, I-” The intention behind your words surprises even you, so filled with need and maybe even...love.

Your tone alone forces a whine out of him. And then he’s nodding eagerly against you, nose nudging against yours insistently. He understands, he gets the message loud and clear. 

“I know, love.” With any other man, it should sound cocky or conceited at most. But its Owen, his voice is heated, soothing and dripping with syrup, so filled with his adoration for you as well. 

“Me too” He strains, his words ridden with underlying meaning. And then hes crashing his lips to yours one final time to swallow your cries.