The days that followed were quiet—but not distant.
Maya and Lucien found a rhythm, like the rise and fall of dough in the morning light. He no longer came just to buy bread. Sometimes, he brought his laptop and worked at the corner table. Sometimes, he stayed late after closing, helping her scrub the countertops or organizing jars of cinnamon and nutmeg.
He didn't talk much when she was tired.
He just... stayed.
One evening, as a thunderstorm rolled over Roselake, the power flickered and died. The bakery dimmed into candlelight. Maya, startled mid-whisk, looked toward the front—and found Lucien already lighting matches with calm precision.
"Storms don't scare you?" she asked, trying to steady her voice.
He looked up. "Not when I'm somewhere safe."
Maya turned away, heart skipping a beat.
That night, as the wind howled outside, they sat on the floor behind the counter—surrounded by candles, blankets, and the scent of warm vanilla.
"Can I ask you something?" she said softly.
Lucien nodded.
"Why me?"
The question had haunted her since the first time he'd spoken her name. It had taken root in the silence between their touches, their shared glances, their quiet laughter.
Lucien didn't answer immediately.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded napkin. On it, sketched with a fine pen, was the bakery's front window—complete with Maya's silhouette behind the counter.
"I drew this the second time I saw you," he said. "Something about you... felt like home. You didn't flinch when I looked at you. You didn't flatter me. You just... existed. Genuinely. Kindly."
He paused, then added, "And when the world feels heavy, I crave that kind of truth."
Maya blinked back sudden tears.
No one had ever spoken to her like that. As if her quietness wasn't weakness—but wonder.
But not everything was tender.
With attention came pressure.
Rumors whispered through town like smoke: that she was using him. That he was using her. That she didn't belong in his family's world.
One day, while restocking scones, Maya overheard a woman at the counter murmur, "She'll never survive their estate. She's too soft."
Maya flinched—but didn't respond.
Lucien, who had been reading near the window, rose silently, walked over, and placed a hand gently at the small of Maya's back.
"Funny thing about soft things," he said, meeting the woman's eyes, "is that they don't break. They bend. They outlast."
The bakery went quiet.
The woman blushed and left.
Lucien turned to Maya, his voice low. "Don't let them shrink you."
Maya wanted to say thank you, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she placed her hand over his and gave it a quiet squeeze.
A week later, Maya received an invitation.
Not from Lucien, but from his mother—Lady Vivienne Van Alstyne.
The handwriting was elegant. The tone was not.
You are invited to tea at the Van Alstyne Estate. Friday. Noon. Be punctual.
Maya's hands trembled as she read it.
Lucien's mother was known for her cold grace and commanding presence. She hosted charity balls, managed property empires, and selected society brides as if curating art.
She was everything Maya was not.
Still, Maya went.
She wore her mother's pearl earrings. Brushed her hair three times. Chose a simple cream dress that didn't try too hard.
Lucien was waiting outside the estate.
He looked troubled. "I didn't know she sent that."
Maya offered a shaky smile. "It's okay."
"It's not. But I'll wait here. Just in case."
She squeezed his hand—and walked into the lioness's den.
The tea room was made of marble and silence.
Lady Vivienne sat at the head of the table, spine straight, chin lifted.
"You must be Maya," she said without a smile.
Maya nodded. "Thank you for inviting me."
"Let's not pretend this is about pleasantries."
Maya sat, fingers curled tightly in her lap.
"I'll be direct," Vivienne continued. "Lucien is... impressionable. He believes you bring him peace. Perhaps you do. But peace fades."
Maya blinked, stunned. "I—I care for him."
"I believe you do," Vivienne said, sipping her tea. "But love is not enough in our world. There will be expectations. Sacrifices. You'll be scrutinized, judged, copied, condemned. Can you survive that?"
Maya sat very still.
"I don't want his world," she said, voice steady. "I only want him to have something real in it."
Vivienne's eyes flickered—just briefly.
And then, to Maya's astonishment, she leaned back and nodded.
"That," she said, "was the correct answer."
When Maya stepped outside, Lucien rushed to her side.
"I was ready to storm in," he said, half-smiling.
"She's... terrifying," Maya admitted, exhaling.
Lucien chuckled, relief washing over him. "She respects strength. You must've shown her yours."
"I told her I didn't want your world."
Lucien paused. "And what do you want?"
Maya looked up at him.
"I want you. Just as you are."
Later that night, as the stars blinked over Roselake, Lucien returned to the bakery.
He carried a wrapped bundle—inside, a velvet box.
Maya opened it carefully.
Inside lay a delicate gold chain. Hanging from it was a tiny white camellia, cast in porcelain.
"You kept the first one," Lucien said, voice soft. "So I thought you deserved one that never fades."
Maya touched it reverently.
"I love it."
Lucien hesitated. "And me?"
She looked at him—and for once, she didn't hold back.
"I love you, Lucien."
He stepped closer. Held her face in his hands. "Then let me protect what's mine."
Maya smiled.
"I'm not yours to protect," she said. "I'm yours to walk beside."
And in that moment, under the warm light of the bakery and the scent of rising bread, he kissed her—tenderly, reverently—as if she were the rarest flower in a world full of thorns.