Elin tilted her head, studying the man who looked far too at ease for someone who had sworn his life was all deadlines and calendars. He lounged in the chair as if he belonged there, his jacket folded neatly beside him, sleeves rolled just enough to hint at a man unused to sitting still.
"If you're going to keep that corner table," she said, sliding her rag into the apron pocket, "you'll have to earn it."
Axton raised an eyebrow, his mouth curving in faint amusement. "Earn it? This isn't just a café, it's a monarchy with laws?"
"Of course," she replied, folding her arms in mock seriousness. "Everyone who claims a corner table has to prove their worth. It's tradition."
His lips curved, amusement lighting his otherwise reserved expression. "And how exactly do I prove myself to the bakery queen?"
Elin's eyes gleamed with mischief. "You bake."
That word hit him like an unexpected jab. "Bake? As in, actually use the oven?"
"As in flour on your hands, dough sticking to your shirt, sugar in your hair," she said, her grin widening. "The whole thing. Think you can handle it, Mr. I've-got-an-entire-company-to-run?"
He gave a short laugh, incredulous. "I run billion-dollar negotiations, not mixing bowls."
"Then this will be your greatest challenge yet," she said, suppressing a laugh. "Consider it... character building."
Her grin widened when he didn't immediately protest. Instead, he studied her with that calculating gaze, like he was weighing the risk of stepping into unknown territory. For a moment, she wondered if he might actually back out, but then his mouth quirked into that small, reluctant smile she was starting to recognize.
"When?" he asked.
Her brows lifted. "You're agreeing?"
"Against my better judgment," he muttered, though the spark in his eyes gave him away.
She didn't hesitate. "Five in the morning."
His head fell back against the chair, and he groaned dramatically. "Five? Elin, I usually go to bed at five."
"Which explains a lot," she replied smoothly. "See, normal people start their days with bread and coffee, not midnight emails and conference calls."
He rubbed a hand over his face, chuckling. "You're merciless."
"Not merciless," she corrected. "Just selective. You don't have to come if you're too busy. I get it." Her voice softened into a teasing lilt. "Maybe this little corner table isn't worth the trouble after all."
That struck something. His gaze sharpened, and for the first time, she saw a flicker of determination beneath the amusement. He leaned forward again, elbows on the table, the lazy confidence of a man who had never once backed down from a challenge.
"Oh, it's worth it," he said quietly. "I'll be here."
Elin felt a warmth bloom in her chest, though she masked it with a light laugh. "We'll see how long you last once the alarm clock goes off."
His mouth curved, not quite a smile, but close. "You'll be surprised."
***
The first hints of dawn crept through the streets, soft light catching the edges of rooftops and glinting off shop signs. Elin yawned, rubbing her eyes as she unlocked the back door of the bakery. She expected the usual early riser regulars to trickle in eventually, but the figure standing in the doorway made her pause.
Axton.
He stood there, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly mussed as if he had wrestled with sleep itself, yet his posture radiated determination. Her chest tightened at the sight. She had warned him that bakers started work long before the city woke, but she hadn't actually expected him to show up.
"You're here," she said, stifling another yawn. Her voice carried a mix of surprise, amusement, and something softer she didn't want to name.
"You dared me," he replied simply, stepping inside as if the bakery had always been his territory.
Elin's eyes flicked down at his clothes. The same crisp white shirt and jeans from last night. Her brows knit. "Don't tell me you stayed up all night?" she asked, a touch of guilt creeping into her tone.
He looked tired, a shadow under his eyes, a subtle slump in his shoulders, yet his green eyes held that same quiet intensity that had unsettled her yesterday. "I won't wake up even if the world is on fire," he said with a sheepish smile, the kind that made her heart skip.
She sighed, a mix of exasperation and affection. "You're impossible," she scolded, shaking her head. "Do you even know what 'rest' means?"
He tilted his head, mock innocence in his expression. "Rest is overrated. I've got bread to earn."
Elin groaned, tugging her apron over her shoulder. "Bread? It's dough, not gold. But fine. Come on. Upstairs. There's a spare apartment over the bakery. You need sleep more than kneading."
His brow lifted. "Apartment?"
"Yes," she said, motioning toward the narrow stairway tucked behind a shelving unit. "It's empty. Cozy. Not much, but it's quiet. Rest there. You'll thank me later."
He paused, then glanced back at the counter and the rows of pastries lined in the soft morning light. "You make it sound like a vacation."
Elin smirked, tugging his arm gently toward the stairs. "Consider it a reward for your reckless bravery."
He followed, letting her guide him upward. The apartment was small, warm, and sunlit, the kind of place where the faint scent of flour still lingered in the corners. Axton sank onto the couch with an exaggerated sigh, stretching out his long frame like a cat, the sleeves of his shirt riding up to reveal toned forearms dusted lightly with yesterday's flour.
"You're lucky it's early," she said, dropping onto a chair across from him. "I could make you knead dough right now as punishment."
He laughed softly, a sound that seemed to fill the quiet space. "And risk breaking your delicate little bakery rules? Never."
Elin shook her head, smiling despite herself. "Go to sleep. Seriously. I'll call you when breakfast is ready."
He nodded once, but before closing his eyes, he looked at her, a curious weight behind his gaze. "You're not going to peek at me while I sleep, are you?"
Her lips twitched. "I could, but that would be creepy. Even for me."
He chuckled again, settling back. "Good. I trust you... mostly."
Elin lingered at the door for a moment, watching him, noting the faint rise and fall of his chest as he drifted into rest. She shook her head softly, a flush warming her cheeks.
Why did seeing him like this make her chest ache?
And as the sun climbed higher, spilling gold across the wooden floors, she couldn't help but wonder: what had she gotten herself into by letting him in, even for a little sleep?
The quiet apartment held its breath, and so did she.
The smell of warm bread drifted through the apartment when Axton stirred awake. He blinked, sunlight brushing against his face, and stretched with a low groan that echoed off the wooden beams. For a moment, he forgot where he was, until the faint sounds of clattering bowls and the rhythmic thud of dough being worked pulled him back to reality.
The bakery. Elin.
He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. His body ached from staying up the night before, but there was something oddly comforting about waking in a space that smelled of sugar and spice instead of sterile city air.
Axton padded down, bare feet whispering against the steps, and stopped at the threshold of the kitchen. Elin stood at the counter, hair hastily pinned back with strands slipping free to frame her flushed cheeks. Her arms moved with practiced ease, folding and pressing into the soft mound of dough before her.
There was something mesmerizing about the sight—the quiet strength in her hands, the focused crease in her brow, the way the early light painted her skin with gold.
"You're staring," she said without looking up.
Axton grinned, leaning against the doorway. "Hard not to. You make it look like a dance."
Her head snapped up, and she rolled her eyes. "It's not a dance. It's dough. And you're late for your first lesson."
He held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, teach me, master baker."
She motioned him over. "Wash your hands first. I don't want city grime in my bread."
He did as told, the cool water jolting him fully awake. When he turned back, she pushed the dough toward him. "Here. Fold it. Press down. Repeat."
He mimicked her movements, except his fold was awkward, his press uneven, and instead of a neat rhythm, the dough sagged in strange angles.
Elin bit her lip, watching him mangle her craft. "You're... really bad at this."
"No, you're just hopeless." She slipped in beside him, her smaller hands guiding his, showing him the pressure, the patience, the rhythm. Her palms pressed over his briefly, and he felt the warmth of her skin, the steadiness of her touch. He didn't say anything, but he noticed how close her shoulder brushed against his arm, how her hair tickled his cheek when she leaned forward.
"See?" she murmured. "Gentle, but firm. Like this."
He swallowed, distracted less by the dough and more by the way her voice softened when she taught. "You know, you're terrifying when you're in baker mode."
She huffed, but her lips curved faintly. "And you're a distraction."
Before long, flour coated his shirt, his hands, and—he realized with a laugh—his cheek. Elin snorted, pointing. "You look like you fought a bag of flour and lost."
"Maybe I did," he shot back, then swiped a streak of flour across her arm before she could dodge.
Her gasp filled the kitchen. "You didn't."
His grin widened. "Oh, I did."
In a blink, she retaliated, her fingers brushing flour across his jawline. Their laughter rang through the kitchen, mixing with the scent of rising bread and the sunlight spilling in.
For a moment, the world outside didn't exist. It was just them, messy and breathless, standing over a table dusted in white, their eyes catching in a silence that stretched just a little too long.
Elin cleared her throat, retreating quickly to the oven. "Focus. The bread won't bake itself."
Axton leaned back against the counter, still grinning, his heartbeat oddly quick. "Best challenge I've ever taken."
The first loaf came out golden and steaming, the crust crackling as Elin slid it onto the cooling rack. She tapped it with her finger, listening for the hollow sound only bakers seemed to understand.
"Not bad," she said, trying to sound impartial, though her lips twitched upward.
Axton stood beside her, arms crossed, flour still dusting his shirt and hair like snowflakes. "Not bad? That's the highest praise I've ever gotten from you. I'll take it."
She shot him a look but tore off a small piece, blowing on it before popping it into her mouth. Her expression softened, the tension in her shoulders loosening as she chewed. "It's good."
"Good enough for the master baker to admit I'm not completely useless?"
She handed him a piece before answering. The bread was still warm against his palm, the soft inside steaming as he bit into it. His eyes widened in genuine surprise. "Wow. That's... incredible."
Elin's chest lifted with the smallest swell of pride, though she hid it behind a shrug. "That's what happens when you stop mangling the dough and start listening."
He chuckled, tearing another piece. "Listening to you or to the bread?"
"Both." She leaned against the counter, nibbling her piece thoughtfully. The kitchen was quieter now, the frenzy of kneading and flour fights settling into something gentler. Outside, the city was only just waking, but in here, it felt like a little pocket of warmth that belonged only to them.
Axton watched her for a long moment. The way the morning light gilded her hair, the way her fingers brushed absentmindedly against the wood of the counter, the way she seemed to carry an entire world inside her quiet moments.
"You really love this, don't you?" he asked softly.
Her gaze flickered toward him, and for a second, he thought she might deflect with another joke. Instead, her voice came low. "It's all I have."
Something in the way she said it pulled at him, like a thread he wasn't meant to tug. But before he could ask, she pushed off the counter and clapped her hands, her bright smile returning. "Alright, don't get too comfortable. You're still on dish duty for that mess you made."
He raised his brows. "Dish duty? That wasn't part of the challenge."
"It is now," she said firmly, handing him a stack of mixing bowls.
Axton groaned dramatically but took them anyway, grumbling about unfair terms. Elin just shook her head, watching him with a faint curve to her lips she didn't bother hiding this time.
When the bowls clattered into the sink, he glanced over his shoulder. "So, when do I get my official baker's badge?"
"You don't," she replied with a smirk. "But you can come back tomorrow and try not to set the kitchen on fire."
He laughed, wiping his wet hands on his shirt. "That sounds like an invitation."
Her cheeks warmed, though she didn't say anything. Instead, she busied herself with shaping another loaf, avoiding his eyes.
For Axton, though, it was enough. Enough to keep him coming back. Enough to wonder why this little bakery, tucked on a quiet street, felt more like home than anywhere else he'd been in years.