Stay Out of It
Love Quinn x Reader
One-Shot: Stay Out of It
summary: you're just a regular at the bakery, charmed by the owner's attention and perfect desserts. but love quinn's affection comes with consequences you can't begin to understand—until you wake up on an empty road with missing hours and a warning to stay away.
warnings: drugging, implied murder, memory loss, manipulation, obsessive behavior, emotional cheating, and canon-typical violence (implied).
note(s): my back is killing me.
day 24/31 of angstober.
The bell above the bakery door chimed your arrival for the fourth time that week. You'd become something of a fixture at A Fresh Tart, drawn back by the rotating selection of pastries and the warm atmosphere that felt like a hug after long days. The space smelled like brown butter and caramelized sugar, and you'd claimed the corner table by the window as your unofficial spot.
Love Quinn-Goldberg looked up from behind the counter, and something flickered across her face—recognition, pleasure, maybe something else you couldn't quite place. Her smile was radiant, the kind that made you feel like you were the only person in the room.
"Back again?" she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "I'm starting to think you're stalking my desserts."
"Can you blame me?" You settled into your usual seat, dropping your bag on the chair beside you. "Everything here is perfect. I keep trying to pick a favorite, but..."
"But then you'd have to stop trying new things." Love finished your sentence with a knowing look, already moving toward the display case. "I have something I think you'll love. Just finished it an hour ago."
She returned with a slice of what looked like chocolate cake, but the texture seemed impossibly delicate, the layers visible through the fork marks on the plate. When she set it down in front of you, you caught the faint scent of espresso and dark chocolate.
"Opera cake," she explained, sliding into the seat across from you without asking—something she'd started doing on your third visit. "It's French. Notoriously finicky."
You took a bite, and the flavors unfurled across your tongue in perfect harmony. The coffee buttercream, the chocolate ganache, the almond sponge—it all melted together seamlessly.
"The moisture's perfect," you said, genuinely impressed. "How do you keep the layers from getting soggy but still this... tender?"
Love's expression shifted. Her eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin prickle, though you couldn't say why. She leaned forward slightly, her fingers drumming against the table in a rhythm that seemed unconscious.
"It's all about timing," she said softly. "Knowing exactly when to add each element. Too early, and everything falls apart. Too late, and..." She trailed off, her gaze not leaving your face. "Well, the moment passes."
You laughed, breaking the strange tension. "You make it sound like a relationship instead of a cake."
"Maybe they're not so different." Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Both need the right balance. Both need... protection."
Something in her tone made you glance up, but she was already standing, smoothing her apron with quick, efficient movements.
"More coffee?" she offered.
"Sure, thanks."
Over the following weeks, your visits became routine. Love always seemed to be watching for you, new creations ready, your favorite tea already steeping before you'd even ordered. She'd join you when the shop was quiet, and you'd talk about everything—books, cooking, the strange little moments that make up a life. She asked questions about you, seemed genuinely interested in your answers. It felt good to be seen like that, to have someone pay attention.
You didn't think much of the way her jaw tightened when you mentioned going on a date. Or how she deflected whenever you asked about her husband, the man you'd only glimpsed once or twice, always in the back, always seeming distracted.
"Joe's busy with his own projects," she'd said once, waving a hand dismissively. "We give each other space."
You'd nodded, thinking how mature that sounded, how evolved. Your last relationship had been suffocatingly codependent, so Love's approach seemed refreshing. Aspirational, even.
One evening, you stayed later than usual. The October sun had already set, and A Fresh Tart was empty except for you and Love. She'd locked the door, flipped the sign to closed, but waved you back to your seat when you'd started to gather your things.
"Stay," she'd said. "Keep me company while I clean up."
So you did, chatting while she wiped down counters and put away ingredients. The conversation turned to your childhood, and you found yourself sharing stories you didn't usually tell—the messy, vulnerable ones about feeling invisible, about always being the friend but never the choice.
Love stopped moving. She turned to face you fully, her expression unreadable in the dim lighting.
"You're not invisible," she said, her voice low and certain. "Not to me."
The words sent a warm feeling through your chest, the kind of validation you'd been craving without realizing it. You smiled, grateful for the friendship you'd found in this unexpected place.
"Thanks, Love. That means a lot."
She crossed the space between you, and for a moment you thought she might hug you. Instead, she reached past you to grab your empty mug, her arm brushing yours.
"Let me make you something special," she said. "A new recipe I've been working on. You'll be my first real taste tester."
She disappeared into the kitchen, and you heard the sound of the espresso machine, the clink of glass against metal. When she returned, she had two small cups of what looked like affogato—vanilla gelato drowning in espresso.
"To friendship," she said, raising her cup.
You touched yours to hers, the ceramic making a soft clink in the quiet bakery. The dessert was incredible, the bitter and sweet playing against each other, the temperature contrast making each bite interesting. You felt pleasantly tired, the warmth of the shop and the comfort of the evening settling into your bones.
"This is amazing," you murmured, taking another spoonful. "You're amazing. I don't know what I'd do without this place."
Love's smile was sad. "Sometimes caring about someone means making hard choices."
You blinked at her, trying to focus on her face, but your vision had gone slightly blurry around the edges. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing." She reached across the table, her hand covering yours. "Just... be careful, okay? The world isn't always kind to good people."
You wanted to ask her what she meant, why her voice sounded so far away, why the room had started to tilt slightly. But your tongue felt thick, your limbs heavy.
"Love?" Your voice sounded strange to your own ears. "I don't feel..."
"Shh." Her hand was on your shoulder now, steadying you as you swayed. "It's okay. I've got you."
The last thing you remembered was her face, close to yours, her expression caught between tenderness and something that looked almost like grief.
The cold woke you.
Your cheek was pressed against rough asphalt, your body curled on its side. Every muscle ached, and your head pounded with a vicious intensity that made opening your eyes an act of willpower. The sky above was that particular shade of pre-dawn gray, stars fading but the sun not yet risen.
You pushed yourself up slowly, your hands scraping against gravel. A road stretched in both directions, empty and unfamiliar. Trees lined both sides, their branches bare and skeletal against the lightening sky. You were at least twenty miles outside the city, based on the complete absence of lights or buildings.
Your phone was in your pocket, its battery at three percent. No missed calls. No messages. You checked the time—5:47 AM. The last thing you remembered was... Tuesday evening? But your phone said it was Wednesday.
Hours. You'd lost hours.
Panic clawed up your throat as you tried to piece together what happened. The bakery. Love. The affogato. And then nothing, a black void where memory should be.
Your hands trembled as you called for a ride, relief flooding through you when a driver accepted despite the remote location. While you waited, you noticed your clothes were clean, your bag still on your shoulder with everything inside. Your keys, your wallet, even the book you'd been reading. Nothing taken, nothing disturbed.
Except you'd woken up on the side of a road with no memory of how you'd gotten there.
The driver arrived thirty minutes later, his eyebrows raised at finding you alone on an empty highway. You manufactured a story about a party, about drinking too much, about friends playing a stupid prank. He didn't look convinced, but he drove you home without too many questions.
Your apartment was exactly as you'd left it. You showered, scrubbing at your skin until it was pink and raw, trying to wash away the feeling of wrongness that clung to you like smoke. The water revealed a small bruise on your inner elbow, the kind left by an IV or a blood draw, but it could have been anything. Could have been nothing.
You couldn't go to the police. What would you even say? You'd gone to a bakery, had dessert with the owner, and then woken up on a road? They'd ask if you'd been drugged, and you'd have to say you didn't know, that you'd drunk something the owner had made special, and then it would become a whole thing—accusations and investigations and your face plastered across local news.
And maybe you were wrong. Maybe you'd had some kind of episode, a fugue state or something medical. Maybe this had nothing to do with Love at all.
But you didn't believe that. Not really.
The next day, you walked past A Fresh Tart without going in. You could see Love through the window, arranging pastries in the display case, her movements graceful and practiced. She looked up as if she'd sensed you, and your eyes met through the glass.
Her expression was unreadable. Not guilty, not worried. Almost... relieved?
You kept walking.
Your phone buzzed an hour later. A text from an unknown number:
Sometimes the people who care about you have to make choices you won't understand. Stay away from the bakery. Stay away from me. It's safer for you. I'm sorry.
You stared at the message until your screen went dark. Your hands were shaking again, that same panic from the roadside crawling back up your spine. What had she saved you from? What had she protected you from that required drugging you and abandoning you miles from home?
Or had she been the danger all along?
You thought about responding, about demanding answers, about going back to confront her. But something in the message's finality, in the word safer, made you hesitate. There was a warning buried in that apology, a boundary being drawn in sharp, unmistakable lines.
The next week, you drove past the bakery on your way to work. There was crime scene tape across the door, police cars parked out front. Your heart seized in your chest, and you pulled over, hands gripping the steering wheel until your knuckles went white.
You searched for news on your phone, and there it was—a body found in the woods near the bakery. A woman you didn't recognize, her photo smiling from the screen. The article said she was last seen at A Fresh Tart two weeks ago.
Two weeks ago. Right around when you'd started visiting regularly.
You sat in your car, pieces clicking together into a picture you didn't want to see. Love's intensity, her questions, her interest in your life. The way she'd looked at you that last night, like she was memorizing your face. The strange sadness in her voice when she'd talked about caring for people.
Sometimes caring about someone means making hard choices.
She hadn't been talking about herself. She'd been talking about you.
You drove home and deleted her number, blocked the unknown contact, and started taking a different route to work. You never went back to that neighborhood, never searched for more information about Love Quinn-Goldberg or what happened at A Fresh Tart.
Because some answers were more dangerous than questions. Because sometimes being forgotten was the kindest form of love. Because you'd been chosen—not for romance or friendship, but for survival—and you were lucky enough to be naive enough that she'd let you go.
The bruise on your arm faded within a week, but you still found yourself touching the spot sometimes, remembering the cold asphalt, the empty road, the hours you'd lost. Wondering what exactly you'd been saved from, and what price someone else had paid in your place.
You'd been invisible once, desperate to be seen. Love Quinn had seen you, all of you, and decided you were worth protecting.
Even from herself.
Especially from herself.
And you'd never know if that made her a monster or a martyr, because you were smart enough—finally—to stop asking questions and accept the gift of your own ordinary, invisible, beautifully boring life.
