sadie

One of his colleagues, Sam, had recently moved and came into work the other day raving about a little independent bakery a few blocks away. He had said their cinnamon buns were to die for.

And so, Steve wanted to see for himself just how good Sugarplum Bakes was.

The bell above the door had barely rung all morning. Saturdays were usually your busiest day but with the rain hammering down outside, no one seemed to want to venture outside for a pastry.

And so, you hum to yourself as you finish a fresh batch of blueberry cinnamon buns, the quiet morning giving you some time to work on a new recipe.

You had been more careful this time since your last attempt at a new recipe had resulted in a small kitchen fire. You had naturally panicked about it but when the fire brigade turned up and the most gorgeous man you had ever seen put out the fire like it was nothing, you found yourself feeling flustered for reasons that had nothing to do with the burnt pastries.

You had been so deep in thought about said gorgeous fireman that you barely even notice how much icing you had been pouring over the cinnamon buns.

“Shit,” you mutter to yourself, eyes on the excessive amount of icing now covering the buns. It was definitely a little more than you would usually use on your cinnamon buns but they still looked delicious.

You suppose you could blame it on the gorgeous fireman who had been on your mind for the past week.

You were just slicing up the buns when the bell above the door sounded for the first time in over an hour.

“Coming!” You call, wiping your hands on your apron before rushing out of the kitchen to greet the customer who was carefully inspecting one of the displays.

You open your mouth to do your usual greeting, one that you knew like the back of your hand but you freeze when the man—who was wearing a Hawkins Fire Department jacket—look up and you see the eyes of the fireman who had prevented your apartment from burning down.

You stare at him with wide eyes, briefly wondering if you were dreaming or perhaps even hallucinating his presence.

But he smiles at you and says, “hey. You burnt any more pastries yet?” And you knew then that you were definitely not dreaming.

You laugh nervously as your hands hastily smooth down your apron like it would help you in this situation. Like it would stop your heart from racing or make the fluttery feeling in your stomach go away.

“Not yet,” you reply with a small smile, your cheeks feeling hot all of a sudden. “That was a one time thing, I assure you. No fires here.”

“That’s a damn shame,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting and amusement glittering in his warm eyes. “I’d love an excuse to see you again.”

Your stomach does something funny at those words. You decide to ignore it for the time being.

“Well, this is actually my bakery so feel free to stop by anytime,” you tell him, trying to keep the nerves out of your mouth. “On the house, of course. Since you—you know, stopped me from burning down my kitchen.”

The man laughs and the sound makes you feel warm inside, makes you forget about the rain pouring outside.

“I’m Steve, by the way. Steve Harrington.”

You tell Steve your name and his smile widens.

“Pretty name for a pretty baker,” he tells you. You pray he doesn’t notice how flustered that makes you feel, how those words seem to have rewritten your brain chemistry entirely.

You should say something smart, something that would make him feel as flustered as you feel. But you come up short and so, you say nothing.

“So—I’ve been told your buns are pretty good.”

You blink, something twists low in your gut. “Sorry, what?”

Steve falters, his face and the tips of his ears turning red as he realises the accidental euphemism that had slipped from his lips. The fact that he was now flustered makes you feel even more endeared to him.

“Your cinnamon buns,” he explains, cheeks still burning. “I just—I’ve heard good things. I didn’t mean—”

It was your turn to smile now, your turn to revel in his slightly flustered demeanour.

“I actually just made some blueberry cinnamon buns. New recipe I’m trying out,” you tell him. “Fair warning, I used way too much icing on them. But I’d love a second opinion.”

Steve pauses then smiles and says, “there’s no such thing as too much icing.”

You take extra care with the bun you pick out for Steve, making sure it was the best one from the bunch (for feedback purposes, obviously) and you pack some of extra blondies and a danish swirl in the takeaway box.

You hand it over the counter to Steve and there was a moment where your fingers brush against his and the fire in your gut burned so hot you weren’t sure that there was anything that could put it out, even the firefighter stood in front of you.

“Does this come with your phone number?” Steve asks, a hopeful edge to his voice. “You know—just so I can give you a full review on these over-iced buns.”

The question does nothing to help your heart ponding in your chest, in fact, it makes it beat even faster. Makes you feel a lightheaded.

“It does.”

You smile back at him before grabbing a nearby pen you use for noting orders and a napkin, which you scribble your number on.

Steve takes the napkin, barely able to contain his smile as he slides it carefully into his pocket.

“I’ll call you,” he promises, already planning on calling you the second his shift ends. “Until then—don’t start any fires. Or do, at least then I’ll get to see you again.”

You laugh as he leaves the bakery, thanking your lucky stars that Steve Harrington decided to stumble into your bakery.

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