his blonde hair was slightly less severe, a few strands falling across his brow. he looked undone, at least more than you’d ever seen him. unfortunately, it was devastating—like an accidental striptease conducted through officewear.

your hands fumbled a cascade of 500-yen coins, sending his change skittering across the counter. he caught a stray one in one movement before it could edge off the metal tray.

his fingers brushed yours for a fleeting second during the intercept.

“oops, sorry,” you stammered, your face flushing.

“no need,” he said.

his tone was a low baritone of exhaustion that seemed to vibrate in the air between you., and you thought that’d be it, all the talking done.

“a busy afternoon, i see,” he remarked.

it was only small talk, nothing more than a mere observation—except coming from someone mature and grounded, it made the wide bakery counter feel suffocatingly small.

you took a breath, offering a response that barely passed for composed. “yeah, busy is... one word for it.”

there should have been an addition.

you should have said something politely warm—something professional and customer-service-approved. something about the weather. anything that wasn’t ‘i need to know what those hands feel like, i need to know what sound you make when you’re tired and someone is touching you’.

instead, you found yourself saying: “had a long day?”

he exhaled, the first glimpse of weariness you’d ever heard him voice. “long life.”

you laughed—a startled, brief thing. “that's… bleak.”

“is it?” he raised his brows. “it was honest.”

“honest,” you repeated.

your heart was doing something arrhythmic.

“okay.” you said. “then honestly: it’s unclear if you’ve slept this week.”

he blinked. then, impossibly, the corner of his mouth twitched.

“perceptive,” he said. “and rude.”

“you said honest.”

“i did.” he took a sip of his coffee, weary eyes closing as he swallowed.

“perhaps,” he said, lowering the cup, “i should be more careful what i invite.”

the words hung, weighted with something that had nothing to do with the steady hiss of the steaming espresso machine behind you.

you should have let it go—smiled, handed him his croissant in its brown paper bag, and let him retreat back into whatever meticulously ordered world he belonged to.

“maybe you should,” you said, your voice dropping to match his quiet register. “invite things, i mean. carefully.”

his gaze didn’t stray.

the ceramic cup made a soft, deliberate clink against the counter as he set it down, as if he were treating the moment like a delicate risk assessment, weighing odds only he could see.

“and what would you invite?”

you gulped. something that might have been a vowel escaped before dying a quick, humiliating death in the back of your throat.

he waited, a slight tilt of his head.

then—because your body had apparently decided to betray you completely—your gaze traveled.

down to the hands that still half rested on the counter.

long, capable looking fingers and broad, competent palms, the kind that looked like they could break or hold something with equal precision.

then further, to his wrist—to the rolled sleeve bunched just below his elbow, a subtle, taut vein trailing up to his forearm.

up near his throat, you took in the undone buttons, the sliver of warm skin, the shadow of his collarbones.

you’d been staring too long.

you knew you’d been staring too long.

but you couldn’t seem to make yourself stop, and somehow what was worse than the ogling itself was the helpless paralysis of it.

he looked at you as if he’d gained access to the unfiltered thoughts behind your gaze—the thoughts you definitely hadn’t meant to lay out as bare as you just had.

the silence stretched between you like taffy.

a customer coughed somewhere behind him.

“right,” you said, your voice strangled. “well. i should—the croissant—”

your short-term memory had clearly been sacrificed to whatever god of humiliation was currently having a field day with your nervous system. you blindly grabbed the pastry bag off your side of the counter and pushed it toward him.

he straightened, his free hand reaching for the croissant bag—you must have handed it to him at some point, good job, body—and adjusted his suit jacket over his arm.

“have a good evening.”

with those parting words, he turned and walked out the door, leaving the bell above the bakery entrance to chime softly in his wake.

outside, the evening cooled kento’s face.

he walked three blocks before he realized he’d been gripping the croissant bag hard enough to crush it.

almost forcefully, he unclenched his jaw and loosened his fingers. he wanted to slow his pace and most importantly, take a breath deeper than he’d taken the entire work day. instead he took another step.

he really should not have asked that.

he knew he shouldn’t have.

but the way you’d looked at him—that initial flash of boldness, the way you’d almost dared him—and then just stopped, gone quiet, looked at him like you were attempting to answer without your words, and when your eyes had dropped to his throat—

he closed his eyes and tilted his head back.

this was already proving to be inconvenient.

he was grown. orderly. a grade 1 sorcerer. he’d faced things that would make most people give up, but he’d kept going, unshaken.

yet someone in a flour-dusted apron, staring at his collarbones like they were the most fascinating thing in the world, had managed to unravel him.

he kept walking.

on thursday, kento tried taking his coffee elsewhere.

the alternative café was a quiet, efficient space, completely unbothered by his presence.

the coffee was adequate. the pastry was fine.

yet it had been the most miserable twenty minutes of his week up to that point.

thirty more seconds and he’d be late for work, but instead of putting the car in drive, he turned off the ignition and rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a heavy exhale that fogged the windshield

he’d spent the entire time staring at a plain wall, remembering the way your eyes had traced him, the faint flush that had crept up your neck, and your raw, breathless tone after telling him to invite things carefully.

he unclipped his seatbelt and adjusted his tie in the rearview mirror before stepping out of his car and walking inside.

the morning rush had barely hit.

you let yourself sink into the rhythm of being elbow-deep in the proofing dough.

the yeasty warmth of the preheated rack ovens and the quiet hum of the display refrigerator were your only company behind the counter.

until the bell chimed.

you scrubbed the dough from your hands, washing and wiping them dry on a towel before turning towards the sound.

there he was—as if summoned by your sheer inability to stop thinking about him.

the tie was back.

“welcome,” you greeted.

he gave a small nod. already moving with the rhythm, you reached for his order before he even spoke.

“the usual?”

“yes, please.”

you turned toward the espresso machine, reaching automatically for the familiar cup. “you know, i thought you might’ve found somewhere better.”

his brow lifted slightly. “better?”

you measured the coffee. “oh y’know. somewhere with less…” you paused, then glanced over your shoulder.

“me?”

“noise,” you corrected quickly.

something shifted in his expression. you ignored the fact that there were only about four silent patrons lounging inside—counting him.

“i don't think the coffee is better elsewhere.”

“oh that’s...” you blinked, handing him the cup. “...high praise.”

the corner of his mouth lifted. “it is,” he confirmed. “you’re good at what you do.”

it was perfectly ordinary praise. you tried not to read too much into it, pushing the paper bag toward him.

of course, your thumbs just had to brush over the crisp edge of the fold.

“can’t have my regulars wandering off.” you babbled, snatching your hand back. “heard the coffee down the street tastes like burnt rubber.”

he grabbed hold of the bag. “it certainly was… subpar.”

you blinked. “oh, you’ve been?”

he didn’t answer, choosing instead to place his payment on the steel dish for cash.

“this morning.” the admission slipped out quietly. “an inefficient decision.”

a chuckle left you before you could help it.

“what a formal way to say you prefer our coffee.”

“i suppose it was.” he agreed, a faint curve touching his mouth as he took a sip of his coffee.

“when something is done well...” a brief beat of silence settled between you before he added, almost as if making a point against himself, “there’s little reason to replace it.”

you swallowed.

he was talking about coffee. what else could he have meant?

“well then.” his expression had settled back into its usual composure. “thank you,” he added with a brief nod. “excuse me.”

then he turned and walked out.

about a week—maybe a bit longer—must have passed.

the phone on the back wall rang right in the middle of your afternoon prep. your hand reached for the receiver, immediately pinning it to your shoulder so the tray of fresh macarons in your hands wouldn't lose its balance.

you greeted the caller with the name of your bakery.

a pause filled the line before a low, smooth voice cleared its throat. the sound was distinct enough to make your heart jump.

“good afternoon.” he sounded formal, but his tenor almost carried an edge of humiliation. “i’d like to place an order for pickup.”

“certainly,” you said. “though there’s no need to call ahead for your usual order.”

“this is not... for my usual,” he said slowly, as if every word was being extracted from him under threat of torture. 

“i’d like a strawberry shortcake, the dark chocolate ganache, and...” he paused, the sound of paper rustling over the line. “...the ‘custard fruit tart tower’.”

you paused.

the receiver suddenly felt heavier than the tray in your hands. “you’d like... three cakes? and a tart tower?”

“yes.”

your mind went completely blank. this sounded far beyond a casual treat—it had to be for a group.

you knew it wasn’t your business to question purchases, but your thoughts raced anyway. was it for a family? was he married? did he have kids?

a wave of dread settled in your stomach. you gripped the phone a little tighter between your shoulder blades as you desperately trying to recall his hands.

ninety-nine percent—that’s how sure you were that you hadn’t seen a ring on his left hand.

but that wasn’t a hundred. he could easily take it off outside the house.

“is there an issue?” the question cut through the line, oblivious to the silent nuclear meltdown happening on your end.

you shook your head ‘no’ before your mouth could land on an audible answer, and that’s when you heard it.

“what—what is it? hey, what—tell me—do they not have it? then ask if they have macarons and—”

the background voice was muffled, but distinctly loud, energetic, and entirely lacking in basic public courtesy.

“—tell them i’ll take twenty!”

“please ignore my colleague,” he said, his tone sharpening into a dangerous weapon. “he’s currently standing too close to me.”

the knot in your stomach dissolved so fast it left you lightheaded. just a work event, then.

“is...” you cleared your throat, repeating the order back to him. “i mean, will that be all?”

“yes,” his voice was noticeably tighter. “i apologize. my superior is, unfortunately, an insatiable, bottomless pit.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “sounds like a hostile work environment.”

“...it is,” he breathed. “but this was a tolerable interruption.”

your pulse jumped.

“likewise.”

you hoped your tone hadn't given too much away.

“i will be there in twenty minutes,” he said. “please... prepare yourself.”

“prepare my—?” you repeated. “the order, you mean?”

“for him,” he corrected, a weary sigh passing through the speaker. “he insists on coming along to ‘inspect the frosting.’ i am warning you as a courtesy.”

you had exactly seventeen minutes to compose yourself before the door kicked open.

the bell hadn't even stopped ringing when a tall man with a dark blindfold bounded through the entrance, practically vibrating with what must have been either caffeine intoxication or a personality disorder.

“ooh, so beautiful in here,” he announced, spinning in a slow circle to take in the display cases. “say, nanami, why didn’t you bring me here sooner? the lighting alone—”

nanami.

the name echoed in your head, clicking into place like the final piece of a puzzle you’d been obsessing over for weeks.

“because you would do exactly this.”

behind him, nanami stepped through the doorway, looking as if he were mid-calculation of how many years in prison he’d get if he threw his coworker into oncoming traffic.

his tie was immaculate, his jacket perfectly pressed, but something in his posture suggested he’d already aged five years in the car ride over.

“welcome,” you greeted as always.

the taller man acknowledged the greeting by taking two enormous strides toward the counter, leaning so far over the display case that his nose was practically touching the cold glass.

“look at these!” he gasped, far too loud for a shop where a few other patrons were currently trying to enjoy their pastries in peace. “these have those gold leaf flakes! is this why you were hoarding—”

“that was not hoarding.” nanami stepped into the space beside him with practiced efficiency, like a man who dealt with catastrophes for a living. “i was enjoying a private purchase.”

the white-haired man threw his head back, letting out a laugh that rattled the hanging light fixtures above the register before turning toward you.

he nudged a thumb at nanami’s direction. “don’t believe this little gatekeeper for a second. he’s been bringing good stuff to the office for weeks. stares at them for way too long before eating. just to taunt me.”

“i don’t spend my morning commute scheming against your appetite,” nanami said, expression tightening. “i enjoy them.”

“that’s what i said.”

something warm bloomed in your chest. not because of the way nanami’s eyes avoided yours at his colleague’s blunt observation, but because nanami had brought another part of his life with him, as messy and loud as it was.

besides, of course nanami would notice the presentation. he was probably just taking in your craft—he seemed like a neat, meticulous man.

“i don’t think he's trying to mess with you,” you offered gently, setting a pair of tongs down on the tray. “people appreciate good baking.”

“appreciation?” he let out a snort. “please! he gets the same three items, sits at his desk, and looks at them like they saved his life. if he loved your stuff that much, he’d just tell you instead of torturing me with the smell.”

a beat of silence dropped over the counter.

nanami didn’t offer a single word of defense. his throat worked, eyes dropping casually to fixate on the wooden edge of the glass case with a newfound interest in the grain.

next to him, his superior looked insufferably smug, emitting the exact air of a cat that had just knocked a glass off the table on purpose and was waiting to see what would happen next.

“well,” you cleared your throat, reaching for a large box and popping it open with an efficient snap before he could find out. “let me go ahead and get your order packed up for you.”

the air in the room seemed to ease.

“thank you.” nanami said, shoulders dropping with genuine, bone-deep gratitude that went beyond basic customer service. “that would be much appreciated.”

the silence only lasted ten seconds.

“do you always have to be such a buzzkill,” he whined, right as you ducked to retrieve the first cake. “you hadn’t even told me that the baker was attractive.”

your hands froze mid-reach.

“gojo.”

“what?” gojo—the menace had a name—drawled cheerfully. “you could have brought it up. i’d have tagged along sooner.”

nanami gave a resigned sigh. “i didn’t think it was relevant.”

you nearly dropped the box.

“like you didn’t think sharing with me and my students was relevant to your job?” gojo continued with a huff. “you growled at a teenager who asked if there was a spare tart. heartless.”

you packed up the last cake, finding that hard to believe.

“itadori had already eaten a full lunch,” nanami said, his voice dropping an octave into a lethal hum. “and i didn’t share with you,” he continued, “because you were the reason there weren’t any more. you swallow entire pastries whole like a python.”

“figures,” gojo waved a hand dismissively, resting both elbows on the glass display case to lean in closer. “which brings me to my next point. been thinking of hiring a personal pastry chef, so whaddya say? unlimited budget, zero commute, and you get to hang out with me all day.”

nanami’s voice was dangerously firm as he stepped between gojo and the counter. “i’m sure the establishment is doing exceptionally well without your interference.”

gojo grinned, utterly unbothered by the aura of pure death radiating beside him. “so?”

you worked as fast as your hands would carry you, tying the ribbon in a double knot before this man could propose buying the entire commercial lot out from under your landlord.

“i’ll pay double.”

“triple.”

“you’re leaving,” nanami said, physically hauling the taller man a step backward away from the glass.

“ouch, ouch, ouch! workplace violence!” gojo whined, flailing his arms dramatically as if being dragged away by a runaway train, though he barely resisted once he saw you sliding the last thick ribbon around the bakery boxes.

he slapped a sleek, black card onto the counter with enough force to rattle the acrylic sign beside the register.

“pay for everything, keep the change, do whatever you want—just hand over the gold leaf ones before he throws me through the window!”

nanami pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a breath so ragged it sounded like a dying sigh.

“i state my deep regret for his existence,” he muttered, his voice dropping into a raspy, exhausted murmur as he slid the card across the glass toward you. “please charge him whatever you see fit for the trouble.”

kento stayed behind.

gojo hadn’t even waited for the transaction to fully process. the second you had handed him the bags, he’d grabbed them like a prize, thrown a peace sign over his shoulder, and practically skipped out the front door, leaving the bell above it jingling violently in his wake.

he didn’t really know why he stayed behind, but he was acutely aware of the noise that had drained out of the room, leaving him suddenly exposed in the quiet with you.

the embodiment of his growing headache was waiting for him in the car, probably dismantling the tart tower with his bare hands, and he knew he had approximately thirty seconds before frosting-covered hands started honking on the horn.

and yet, his feet remained anchored to the floorboards.

he cleared his throat lightly and began.

“i’d offer to never bring him again,” he said, straightening his posture out of instinct. “but i’m afraid he’d just find his own way here.”

“it’s no trouble,” you smiled. “just as long as you keep accompanying him.”

his chest tightened. there was no mistaking the emphasis, no matter how softly you had delivered it.

“i’ll keep that in mind,” he said. it was a good thing you couldn’t have known his voice had dropped into that quiet register he kept for things that actually mattered to him.

you nodded, a faint flush touching your features, before adding, “you should bring more of your coworkers next time.”

he raised his brows slightly, caught off guard.

“i meant for business! obviously,” you rushed out, gesturing toward the register as if seeking backup from the display case. “bulk orders. customer retention. you know... business reasons.”

it had been that way, of course.

something remarkably close to a smile threatened the edge of his mouth.

a quiet realization settled over him. for a man who spent years decoding corporate doublespeak, watching you scramble to cover a moment of genuine warmth with stiff commercial jargon was strangely, intensely endearing. it gave him a safe ledge to stand on, too—a shared contract of plausible deniability where neither of you had to risk saying the truth out loud.

he gave a single, measured nod, letting the soft pretense of business rest gently between you.

outside, as he pulled open the passenger door to find gojo already halfway through a tart, but he didn’t bother to scold him. for the first time all week, the headache behind his temples didn’t feel quite as heavy.