#luxycaptor

It’s not something you like to spread around that the name on your wrist is Dirk Strider and the stone on a chain around your neck matches his eye color. That’s partially the reason you were homeschooled! That, and an overprotective father, but he has his reasons and his reasons go back to your soulmate tokens.

 And yet…somehow…there’s a horde of news crews outside of the bakery.

 You went in through the back door today on a whim and are very glad. Roxy and Callie are ogling at the crowd, who appear to be waiting on someone. As soon as you step behind the counter the crowd goes nuts, beating against the windows and shouting.

 You take an involuntary step back.

 “Miss Crocker, is it true you’re Dirk Strider’s soulmate?” someone howls clearly through the glass, and you feel faint. Surely they couldn’t have found out. Who would…?

 Regardless, this is a gross invasion of your privacy and you can’t run a business like this.

 You do the only sensible thing and call the police. Luckily, Jake picks up, and manages to get the reporters cleared as far back as the other side of the street so you can open up shop.

 All day, however, is bedlam—it seems like there are hordes of people streaming in, with Jake and Roxy doing the best they can to weed out the nutjobs here to invade into your personal life, but they just don’t stop coming. It’s your best and worst business day. One girl actually lunges across the counter, screaming obscenities and how much you don’t deserve to be Mr. Strider’s soulmate. That shakes you up so badly you retreat into the pantry for a while. When you come back out, Callie is locking the door and Roxy is sweeping.

 “Closed up early for today,” Callie says apologetically. “It seemed to be a greater toll on you than necessary.”

 You simply nod and collapse into a chair, covering your eyes and biting back exhausted, frustrated tears.

 There’s a quiet tap at the door, and Roxy gasps. You look up and see a face you’ve only ever seen on TV. What on earth is Dirk Strider doing here, wearing a hoodie and round-lensed sunglasses?

 You stare dumbfounded as he sheepishly waves.

 “Could I come in?” he asks as Callie warily cracks the door open. “I have some apologies to make.”

 “Let him in,” you say faintly, and Dirk nods his thanks to Callie as she opens the door just wide enough for him to slip in. He pushes his hood back and fusses a little with his hair as he sits across from you.

 “This is a cute shop,” he says, and you nod.

 “Thank you.”

 Awkward silence.

 “So…I’m Dirk.”

 “Yes, I know,” you say, and then want to smack yourself. “I’m Jane.”

 “I know,” he says, quirking a half-smile and pushing the sleeve of his hoodie back. There, written in neat curly blue script, is your name: Jane Crocker. He also flashes the soulmate token around his neck, also blue, the precise shade of your eyes. “I want to apologize for that disgusting vulture display today.”

 “Surely that wasn’t your fault,” you say, surprised that you’re not starstruck so much as shy. That’s…really your name, isn’t it? And he’s really Dirk. It’s. Wow.

 “It is a little bit. Some media intern broke into my dressing room and snapped a picture of me. I happened to be a little naked at the time.” His wry grin tells you that said intern was not very kindly escorted away from the premises. “Managed to get my wrist in the shot. Tracked you down, and then today happened.”

 “Oh,” you say.

 You both stare at the table between you for a little while. You’re not sure what to say.

 “That said,” he says finally, “I’d like to pay you for the damages today.”

 “Damages?” you ask dumbly. “It’s—really, nothing that major was broken, just a few decorations—”

 “I want to pay for them,” he says firmly. He shuffles around in his hoodie pockets and pulls out his phone. “And I want to give you my number. In case this happens again.”

 “Don’t you have a shoot or something in Los Angeles to be at?” you ask, not because you’ve been following his career or anything, you just happened to see it on the news. Yes. That’s it. He grins again. You are surprised at how much he smiles. In his photo shoots and interviews he rarely does anything of the kind.

 “I’m Dirk Strider,” he says. “I do what I want.” He slides his phone across the table. “Give me your phone. We can swap contact info.”

 You hand it over, and once the deed is done you put your phone in your pocket again like it’s made of gold.

 “Thanks,” you say, because what else is there to say? “I really appreciate you coming up here.”

 “No problem,” he says, and looks at your display cases. “Got anything left?”

 “Stale things,” you say. “If you have a moment, sit tight; I can whip up something fresh.”

 “That’s not—” he protests, and you stand, retying your apron strings with vigor.

 “It is,” you say. “On the house.”

 He takes a tentative forkful of your freshly-baked red velvet cake and you can see, behind his shades, that his eyes go wide.

 “Marry me,” he says hazily, and you laugh.

 “I am serious,” he says, and pushes his shades up. Your breath catches a little. His eyes are the exact color of the ink on your wrist and the stone around your neck. “Marry me, Jane. Run away with me and let’s make little gingerbread babies. I will eat everything you make ever. I will get so fat they’ll fire me from modeling forever. Jane,” he says, grasping your hands, and it causes your hysterical laughter to sputter a little, “we were just meant to be. I’ll build you a house with a high-tech kitchen. You’ll have robots doing your baking bidding. Bunny robots.”

 You smile. “Bunny robots? However could I resist?”

 “With a double-decker stove and a toaster,” he says.

 “Ooh, Mr. Strider.”

 You don’t get married that weekend. You barely know each other. But every other Sunday he comes up to Washington and you make him a new dessert. He praises it in his curiously long-winded way and then you talk and joke and jibe for hours.

 Eventually, he does build you a house. There is a robot bunny.