The storm had not let up; the rain pelted the windows with an eager beat, and the wind made the bakery bell clang every few minutes. The city's regular hum was drowned out by the noise of water and winds, leaving the bakery in uncommon, almost intimate calm.
Only the flickering candlelight—soft, warm, and golden—cut through the grey gloom outside. Axton had found a few forgotten candles in the supply cupboard, setting them carefully on the counter. Their flames danced, stretching shadows across the walls, and the scent of melting wax mixed oddly but comforting with the lingering aroma of fresh bread and coffee.
Elin perched on a stool near the counter, knees pulled up, arms hugging them tight. The storm always made her feel small, the kind that had nothing to do with size and everything to do with being fragile in the face of the world. She hated admitting it even to herself.
Axton sat nearby on the edge of a chair, angled so he could see her without crowding her space. He did not joke, tease, or make any sudden movements. He simply existed there, a steady presence, as if his calmness was a shield she could lean against without touching.
The thunder rolled again, closer this time, shaking the glass panes. Elin flinched instinctively, pressing her cheek to her knees.
"Hey," he said, his voice soft as it cuts through the storm. "Open your eyes. Look at me. Just for a moment."
Her eyelids fluttered before slowly lifting to meet his.
Candlelight reflected in his green eyes, making her chest constrict. He leaned forward gently, the air between them electric and delicate. "Tell me about yourself," he urged. "Something to make you feel safe. Something to keep yourself occupied during the storm."
She hesitated, words tangling in her throat, but his gaze held her patiently, waiting. Finally, she exhaled slowly. "My grandmother," she whispered. "She used to bake with me every Sunday."
Her voice caught, but the memory warmed her, releasing the strain in her shoulders. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and relaxed into the recollection.
"She taught me everything." How to knead the dough perfectly, how to fold in butter without splitting the layers, and the patience required to allow bread rise properly. And the thrill was witnessing someone's eyes light up with the first bite."
Her lips curved into a faint smile, almost without her realizing. "She would hum old Mandarin songs while we worked, little tunes about the seasons or flowers. The kitchen always smelled like butter and sugar. It felt like... love. It wasn't just baking. It was memory, and warmth, and laughter."
Her voice wavered, and she pressed her lips together. The next words came slower, heavier. "When she passed, I couldn't step into a kitchen for months. Just seeing flour made me want to turn and run. I felt... empty. Like a part of me had vanished with her."
Axton shifted a little closer, careful to keep the space respectful, and his eyes softened with understanding.
"But then," Elin said, her voice quivering slightly, "I understood that if I didn't bake, I'd lose her twice. I had to go back into the kitchen, even though it stung. I had to remember her... through the bread, the pastries, and every warm, soft bite that made someone happy. That is why I opened Bluebell Bakes. To give them the same comfort she provided me. To keep her memory alive in little, everyday ways."
The storm outside had subsided into a steady drizzle, the rain gently tapping against the windows, like a faint applause for their collective stillness. The flickering candlelight reflected in Axton's eyes, causing them to sparkle, which caught Elin off guard.
"Elin," he replied softly, almost hesitantly. "That story is beautiful."
She laughed softly, a little embarrassed, the sound mingling with the soft patter of rain. "It's silly, really. I mean, who gets sentimental over baking?"
"No," he said firmly, shaking his head. His eyes softened, fixed on her with an intensity that made her stomach flutter. "It's not silly. It's... love. Pure, simple, and real."
Her breath caught, and she looked down, not sure where to put her hands. The warmth of his words, the gentleness of his tone, made the bakery feel smaller and more intimate, as if the world had shrunk to only the two of them.
Then he took a slow breath, as if raising courage from deep inside. "I seldom talk about this," he said. "But... I had a younger sister. Freja."
Elin blinked, her heart racing from the unexpected emotion in his voice. The towering, controlled man who appeared untouchable had lost his confidence. What remained was raw, personal, and painfully honest.
"She was ten years younger than me. Wild, adventurous, always dragging me into trouble. She wanted to be a marine biologist. Loved the ocean, the creatures, the idea of it all... But when she was sixteen..." His voice faltered, jaw tightening. "...she was gone. Car accident. Just like that."
Elin felt a shiver run through her, not from the cold but from the ache in his words. Without thinking, she reached out, brushing her hand over his, fingers lacing with his in a silent offer of comfort.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the soft patter of rain.
He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the candlelight, reflecting flickers of green and gold in a quiet turmoil.
"Since then, I've... worked too much, travelled too much. Tried to fill the silence with noise. Flights, meetings, deadlines... nothing really quiets it. Nothing really heals it." He looked up at her then, and for the first time, his gaze met hers fully, the vulnerability stark and open. "She would have loved our date, though—the Oceanarium. She would have dragged me there first thing, no arguments."
Elin's chest ached at the rawness in his words. She squeezed his hand, grounding him, feeling the strength and fragility in one breath. "She'd be proud of you," she said softly. "For everything you've done. For carrying her memory with you. That takes... courage."
He gave a small, almost shy smile, the corners of his lips lifting despite the shadow of sadness in his eyes.
"And she would've liked you, Elin. Very much. She had a way of seeing people for who they were... and she would've seen you."
The storm still rumbled faintly in the distance, but Elin didn't flinch. She felt anchored, warmed by his presence, and by the shared vulnerability that hung between them like a fragile thread, taut but unbroken.
For the first time that evening, she allowed herself to lean slightly toward him, just enough to close some of the distance, and he didn't move away. His hand remained over hers, thumb brushing her knuckles, steady, reassuring. In that quiet bakery, with the scent of buttered croissants and warm bread lingering in the air, the storm outside became irrelevant. Inside, there was only understanding, shared sorrow, and a tenderness neither of them had expected but both quietly cherished.
A soft smile tugged at her lips. "Thank you for telling me," she murmured.
"And thank you," he replied, his voice low and intimate, "for listening."
The silence stretched between them, heavy but comforting in its own way.
Axton's hand remained under hers, warm and grounding, and neither of them moved, suspended in a quiet intimacy that felt both fragile and permanent.
Then Elin's lips curved into a small, teasing smile. "You know... my grandmother used to say the best way to chase away fear was to bake something. Even in the middle of the night."
Axton arched a brow, the flicker of candlelight catching the sharp lines of his face, and his green eyes glimmered with curiosity. "Bake? In the dark?"
She laughed softly, the sound weaving through the bakery like a warm breeze. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight, mischievous and daring. "Why not? We've got candles. We've got ingredients. And besides, you'll be my assistant."
His mouth tugged into a slow, amused grin. "You trust me not to burn the place down?"
"No," she teased, hopping off her stool. "But I trust you to follow instructions. That's half the battle."
He let out a low chuckle as he stood, his broad frame looming over her, and for the first time since the storm began, the bakery didn't feel lonely. Their shadows intertwined on the tiled walls as they moved into the kitchen, the air suddenly smelling of flour, butter, and the faintly sweet scent of vanilla from the last batch of pastries cooling on the counter.
Elin rummaged through drawers and cupboards by candlelight, tossing ingredients across the counter with exaggerated flair, her laughter ringing softly in the small space. She handed him a bowl, then a whisk. "Flour," she whispered dramatically, tapping the bag like it were a weapon. "Sugar. Butter. Eggs. And you, sir, will mix."
Axton glanced at the whisk in his large hand, then at the bowl, then back at her. "This feels like a trap," he said, his voice low but teasing, echoing slightly in the tiled kitchen.
"Only if you do it wrong," she shot back, smirking.
He stirred, and immediately a puff of flour erupted into the air, coating them both in fine white dust. Elin gasped, coughing and laughing simultaneously. She swiped at her cheeks, leaving streaks across her nose. "You did that on purpose!"
"I didn't!" he protested, though the smirk on his face betrayed him, green eyes dancing with amusement.
Elin wiped flour from her apron and flicked a small handful at him. It hit his shoulder, and he laughed—a deep, rich sound that made her chest flutter. "I see. So this is how it starts. Flour warfare."
"You started it!" she countered, grinning.
He leaned over slightly, brushing his hand against hers as he reached for another spoon. The proximity made her pulse spike, a warm, insistent flutter that she tried and failed to ignore. "You know," he said softly, a teasing lilt in his tone, "if you keep distracting me like this, we might never finish baking."
Elin laughed, heart light despite the storm outside. "Then we'll just eat the ingredients raw."
He tilted his head, eyebrow raised, a sly smile tugging at his lips. "Raw? You mean together?"
Her cheeks heated instantly. She swatted at him lightly, half-scolding, half-laughing. "You're making it sound like a dirty joke!"
He caught her hand gently, his grip warm and grounding, and their laughter mingled, echoing off the walls.
Soon, the kitchen was alive with laughter, playful jabs, and the rhythmic clatter of bowls and spoons against counters. Flour hung in the air like soft mist, coating their hair and clothes, mingling with the warm scent of butter and sugar. Elin guided his large, awkward hands, demonstrating the delicate fold of dough, and he watched her carefully, green eyes intent, lips tugged into a shy smile whenever she corrected him.
At one point, her smaller hands pressed over his, gently kneading the mixture together. Their eyes met, a spark flickering between them, and for a heartbeat, the world outside the bakery disappeared. The warmth of his touch lingered longer than necessary, and she quickly pulled away, cheeks flushed, heart racing like the storm that had passed earlier.
"You're getting the hang of it," she said softly, trying to focus on the dough instead of the warmth radiating from his large hands.
"I think it's more fun when we're both covered in flour," he replied with a grin, flicking a little onto her sleeve.
They worked in a comfortable rhythm, the kitchen echoing with the sound of soft music from the old radio and the occasional pop of the oven timer. Between steps, their conversation drifted to lighter things, and then deeper truths.
Elin leaned against the counter, arms dusted in flour, and spoke quietly. "Growing up in Singapore, I loved wandering hawker stalls as a kid. The smells... satay, kaya toast, fresh noodles. Everything seemed alive back then." She paused, a shadow crossing her smile. "But my parents... they argued constantly about whether I should do something 'practical.' They wanted me to aim higher than just a bakery. Sometimes I still wonder if I'm... enough."
Axton paused, watching her carefully, and then spoke with a quiet earnestness that made her glance up. "Elin, you have no idea how brave that is. To make something that matters, even when the world tells you it's small. You're not just a baker. You're a creator. You give people something they don't get everywhere—comfort, joy, a taste of home."
Her chest tightened at his words, a mixture of gratitude and something deeper she couldn't name. "I... I just want people to feel comfort when they come here. Like my grandmother did for me."
He nodded slowly, then leaned against the counter beside her, voice dropping low. "I get it. Back home in Denmark, summers meant the coast, the wind tangling my hair, Freja dragging me into the waves even when I wanted to stay dry. She was fearless. And when she... left... everything else—success, hotels, flights—none of it meant anything. I felt hollow. Sometimes I think I've spent my whole life running from silence, filling it with noise because I didn't know where to be still."
Elin's hands found his again, fingers brushing naturally. Her green eyes searched his, steadying him, offering what words could not. "Maybe you weren't running," she said softly, "maybe you were waiting. Waiting to find the right place to pause... to feel like you belong."
Their banter had slowed, fading into quiet as the dough finally came together, smooth and pliable beneath their hands. They stood side by side, shoulders brushing, breathing in the warm, buttery scent of pastry mingling with the faint sweetness of sugar and vanilla. The flickering candlelight painted golden highlights across the room, dancing in Axton's green eyes and casting soft shadows across her own flour-dusted face.
Without thinking, he reached up, brushing a smear of flour from her cheek with his thumb. The contact was brief, but it sent a shiver through her, a spark that made her chest flutter uncontrollably. She looked up, their gazes locking, and suddenly the playful, teasing energy of the kitchen fell away. The space between them felt charged, intimate, almost fragile.
"Elin," he murmured, his voice low, threaded with an unfamiliar vulnerability.
She swallowed, her throat dry, heart hammering in her ribcage. "Yes?"
Instead of answering, he leaned in, closing the small space between them. Their lips met softly, almost questioning at first, a gentle brush that sent shivers down her spine. She froze for a heartbeat, then let herself melt into it, her hands rising to rest lightly against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her fingertips.
The kiss deepened gradually, slow and warm, tasting faintly of sugar, flour, and courage.
When they finally pulled apart, both breathing a little faster, their foreheads nearly touching, Elin's cheeks burned a deep shade of pink. Her lips trembled into a nervous laugh. "Well... I guess the first batch turned out better than expected."