Your Husband, A Baker.
Who wakes before the sun, when the world still sleeps and the stars refuse to fade, his first thought already your name.
He ties his apron with a yawn, with gentle fingers that memorized each contour of your face more vividly than any creation heâs ever shaped.
Before the ovens hum, before the city exhales its first sigh of morning, he stands by the counter, flour already dusting his forearms, and starts his day by making a little treat for you.
The locals call him a master of his craft.
They donât see the way his hands tremble when the door chime rings after your step, how he looks up from the counter and forgets the time. How every delicious scent in the air pales in comparison to your perfume.
He greets you with a smile that belongs to no one else, the kind that melts faster than chocolate on a warm plate.
He keeps a corner of the bakery just for you:
a small table by the window,
a vase that always holds a single flower,
and a cup he fills with a freshly brewed drink before anyone else is served.
Itâs where he sits across from you, elbows on the table, eyes soft, watching you take that first sip like itâs the sunrise he wakes for.
 âToo sweet?â heâll ask.
You shake your head, and he exhales, quietly relieved, as though your approval redeems the whole morning.
He smells like vanilla and burnt sugar, like the warmth of something made with patience.
You tease him for never wearing cologne, but later that night, when he wraps his arms around you, you already know he doesnât need to.
He already carries the scent of comfort, of home.
He hides love notes where youâll least expect them,Â
beneath napkins, written on parchment paper, tucked in the box of croissants you take to work.
Ink smudged from flour-dusted fingers, words simple but sure: Come home soon dear, I miss your laugh in the kitchen.
When you do, heâs always waiting. Sometimes with dinner, sometimes with pie.
Always with that same look in his eyes.
Like you are his masterpiece, and heâs still trying to understand how something so perfect came to him.
At closing, when the bell jingles its last farewell and the ovens dim, he cleans the counters in silence, humming softly.
You stay, sweeping the last crumbs into your hand, and he glances over, smile crooked.
âCareful,â he murmurs, âyouâll sweep away the sweetness.â
But heâs not talking about the crumbs.
At home, heâd rub your back absentmindedly, hands remembering a kneading motion even in conversation.
You smile at the fact and rest your head against his shoulder, and he laughs when you mention that youâre not, in fact, a pastry.
Heâd also bake for you when youâre upset.
Not to distract you, but to speak.
He doesnât think just words are sufficient of your burden.
So he goes to what he does best, and folds his apologies into danish layers, his devotion into crusts that flake at the gentlest touch.
Heâd slide a tray across the counter with a quiet, âTry this one.â
You taste it and light up, and he finally breathes again.
Sometimes, before bed, he reaches for your hand, rough palms brushing soft skin.Â
He whispers, âI made too much bread again. Guess weâll have to share it in the morning.â
You both know he made extra for you, and the lucky birds outside you like to share with.
His love language is warmth, and itâs always rising.
He keeps a small jar in the pantry labeled Her Favorites.
Inside are scraps of recipes written in your handwriting, faded with time, smudged with cinnamon and honey.
And when you once asked, half-asleep, âWould you still bake if you didnât have the shop?â
 Heâd exhale slowly against your hair.
âIâd still bake,â heâd muse, âbecause Iâd still have you to feed.â
Later that night, the moonlight catches a colder glow to his skin. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, eyes gentle, voice like the quiet after a storm.
âYou were the reason I made something out of this silly hobby.â he murmurs.
You realize with adoration, that his inspiration reflects in the quality of his work.
Itâs been in every delicate detail, every tender touch, every dawn heâs risen for you.
Devotion shown in every loaf, slow, patient, and warm enough to last a lifetime.
Kazuha, Aether, Ayato, Kaveh, Kinich, Thoma, Zhongli, Lyney, Your Faves!!
@đ¸đŞđđđ°đ¸đĽđłđ°đą đ°đŻ đľđśđŽđŁđđł | please credit if reposted! âĄ
