Hands in the dough
Bada Lee x Fem reader
Summary: In a small 1960s town where everyone assumes love has only one shape, working late in a bakery becomes the moment where desire, fear, and truth collide the instant Bada Lee steps too close.
Word Count: 4,300 words
Warning(s): Internalized Homophobia, Forbidden Relationship, Small Town Pressure.
The bell above the door rings one last time when the final customer of the day walks in.
An older woman, dressed in dark clothes, who buys the usual and leaves without looking at anyone. Rude, honestly, but she paid the bills. When the door closes, the silence falls heavy.
Bada doesn’t say anything. She removes her apron with a slow motion and hangs it on the wooden hook. Flour dusts her hands and forearms, a white constellation over her skin. You think that somewhere else it would be normal, invisible. Here, and to you, everything about her feels like too much… hot.
"You staying to close?" she asks at last, not quite looking at you as she gets ready.
You nod, even though you can’t remember if today was actually your turn. It doesn’t matter. Nothing really matters when she’s the one asking.
You work in silence, cleaning, stacking trays, slowly shutting the oven down, ending another long shift like every other day.
"They say you’re going to stay here your whole life," she says suddenly, almost casually.
The comment surprises you, though you know that being the daughter of a family with big accomplishments, more was expected of you than working in a small bakery. What no one knew was that you were only here to pay rent and eat while studying what you truly loved.
"That’s what they say about everyone," you reply with a soft laugh.
Now she looks at you. A direct look, without the constant detour you’re used to in this town.
"And what do you say?"
You shrug. No one has ever really asked you that. You’ve never considered that saying something else was a real option.
"I don’t know."
Bada smiles slightly. Not mocking, not tender, something else you can’t quite define yet.
"Neither do I," she says. "But I don’t think this place is everything."
You feel a knot tighten in your chest. Not because of what she says, but because of how she says it. Like she’s already decided something. Like she’s living one step ahead, even here, among old wooden walls and inherited recipes.
You finish closing up. The bakery stays dim, filled with the smell of bread that clings to your clothes and never goes away. Your cat hates it. You walk together toward the door. Outside, the night is cool, which is why you’ve always liked leaving at night.
Before stepping out, Bada stops. She’s too close. You can count her breaths.
"Don’t listen to what they say," she murmurs. "Most people just repeat what they were taught not to question."
You don’t know what to answer. You don’t know if she means the future, the town, or you.
She opens the door and the night air rushes in. Before crossing, she looks at you once more.
"See you tomorrow."
And she leaves.
You stay a second longer inside the bakery, hand on the doorframe, heart racing, carrying a new certainty. Uncomfortable and beautiful at the same time.
Something in you has shifted.
...
The next morning, the town wakes under a low fog that smells like damp firewood and routine. At the bakery, the day starts before sunrise. You usually hate that, but today you arrive early. Too early. And, as always, Bada is already there.
Her sleeves are rolled up, her hair tied back without much care. She doesn’t look surprised to see you.
"You’re up early," she says, still working.
"I couldn’t sleep," you answer, and you hate yourself a little for the honesty.
She glances up for a second. Her eyes hold yours just long enough for something between you to settle differently. She doesn’t ask why.
You knead dough together. It’s warm, almost alive. Bada shows you how to press better, how to fold without tearing. She steps behind you, too close. Her hands cover yours.
"Like this," she murmurs.
Her breath brushes your ear. You feel her chest against your back. The gesture is practical, innocent, but your body doesn’t understand excuses. Your skin prickles.
"Relax your shoulders," she adds.
You try. You fail.
Her hands linger a second longer than necessary. You notice. She does too. She doesn’t pull away right away.
The sound of the door opening snaps you apart. A customer enters. A man who stares too much and smiles too little. Bada steps forward, putting on her neutral expression, the one no one ever questions.
You serve him as if nothing happened.
But something did.
When the shop empties again, the silence returns, charged. You clean a table that’s already clean. Bada approaches with a tray.
"You turned red," she says quietly.
"It’s hot here" you reply.
She lets out a short, real laugh.
"You always find a reason."
She leans to set the tray down and her shoulder brushes yours. This time it’s not an accident. She doesn’t move away. Neither do you.
"Everyone here acts like they know who they are," she continues, almost to herself. "Like there aren’t other ways to feel."
You look at her. There’s tension in her jaw, something restrained.
"And you?" you ask. "Do you know who you are?"
Bada watches you for a long moment. Then she lifts her hand and wipes a bit of flour from your cheek with her thumb. The touch is slow. Deliberate.
"More than I should," she says. "Less than they let me."
The world seems to pause in that small gesture. No kisses. No big words. Just her hand on your face and an unspoken truth hanging between you.
Outside, someone walks by. Laughs. Life goes on.
Bada lowers her hand, but her eyes stay.
"Be careful," she warns. "This town notices when things change."
You nod. You know she’s right, but you also know it’s already too late to pretend you don’t feel anything.
...
The afternoon drifts by slowly. The bread is in the oven and there’s nothing left to do but wait. The bakery fills with a heavy warmth, with a silence different from the morning’s. Outside, the town keeps moving.
You sit on the wooden bench by the wall. Bada leans against the worktable, arms crossed. The oven crackles. Flour floats in the low light coming through the window.
"It’ll take a while," she says.
You nod. You don’t move. You feel like if you do, everything inside you will spill out uncontrollably.
A few long seconds pass.
"Bada…" you start, your voice smaller than you want it to be.
She looks at you immediately. Attentive. Present.
"Tell me."
You swallow.
"I don’t feel the same since I met you."
There’s no drama. You say it like something inevitable. The oven keeps time with your breathing.
"I was seeing someone," you continue. "A guy. Everyone thought that was right."
You pause. It’s hard to look at her, but you don’t look away.
"And he was. Or at least I thought so. But now…" you shake your head. "I don’t feel the same. Not with him. Not like I do here, with you."
The silence thickens. Bada doesn’t interrupt. She doesn’t run.
"And that makes me feel like shit," you whisper. "Because it’s not supposed to happen. Because he didn’t do anything wrong. Because this…" you gesture to the space between you, "doesn’t fit anywhere, but…"
You press your hands to your knees.
"With you I don’t have to pretend," you add. "It’s not the same. Everything moves."
Bada looks down for a moment. Takes a deep breath. When she meets your eyes again, there’s no playfulness left.
"You’re not a bad person for feeling," she says slowly. "What would be cruel is living a lie just to keep other people comfortable."
She steps closer. She still doesn’t touch you.
"This town teaches you to apologize for things that aren’t mistakes."
Your throat tightens.
"But I’m scared," you admit. "Of myself. Of what it means. Of what you make me feel."
Bada reaches out. This time she does touch you. Her fingers wrap around yours, firm. Warm. Anchoring.
"I’m scared too," she confesses. "The difference is I won’t let it decide for me."
Her eyes search yours.
"I’m not asking you for anything," she continues. "Just don’t lie to yourself. Or to me."
The oven makes a louder sound. The bread moves forward, unseen, changing.
Your thumb brushes the back of her hand. Small. Intentional.
"Thank you for listening," you say. "I didn’t know where to put all of this."
"Here," she answers without hesitation, placing her free hand over her own chest. "Here is fine."
The bread is almost ready. The heat is thick, clinging to your skin. You don’t talk. You don’t need to.
Bada stays close. Too close. Her hand still holds yours, like letting go isn’t an option either of you is considering. You feel her pulse. Fast. Just like yours.
"Look at me," she says.
You do.
She doesn’t smile. There’s something dark in her expression, focused. Desire without decoration. She steps closer, slow, giving you time to stop her.
You don’t.
Her lips brush yours first, barely. A test. One second where your whole body tenses. Then she comes back, surer. She kisses you without care, without learned tenderness. It tastes like finally, like restrained hunger.
Your fingers clutch her shirt. The world narrows to mouths colliding, shared breath, heat that has nothing to do with the oven. Bada tilts her head, deepening the kiss. She doesn’t overpower you, but she doesn’t hold back.
You let out a low sound, surprised by yourself. It fuels her. Her hand slides to your waist, pressing you against the worktable. The cold wood clashes with her body.
"Bada…" you whisper, unsure if it’s a warning or a plea.
"Shh," she answers against your mouth. "Don’t think."
And then the bell.
The sound hits like a blow.
Bada pulls away instantly. Too fast. Her face shifts in a fraction of a second. Professional. Cold. The mask is back in place.
It takes you longer. Your heart is in your throat. You fix your clothes with clumsy hands, lips still warm, body traitorous.
"Anyone there?" a voice calls from outside.
"Yes," Bada replies firmly. "Coming."
She steps away. She doesn’t look at you, not because she doesn’t want to, but because she knows she won’t be able to pretend if she does.
A man from town enters. He looks around, his gaze lingering on the two of you a moment too long. You feel heat rush to your face again.
"I’m here for the bread," he says. "They told me it was ready."
"Just in time," Bada answers, pulling it from the oven.
While she serves him, you lean against the wall, trying to steady yourself. The kiss still vibrates on your lips. The desire doesn’t disappear. It hides. Sharpens.
The man leaves. The door closes.
Silence.
Bada places her hands on the table, breathing deeply. Finally, she looks at you.
There’s no apology on her face. No regret.
"That wasn’t careful," she says.
"No… it wasn’t," you reply.
She steps closer again. This time she doesn’t kiss you. She stops right in front of you.
"We need to be careful," she adds. "Very."
"I know."
Her fingers brush yours lightly, like a postponed promise.
"But I won’t pretend it didn’t happen," she continues. "And I won’t touch you again until you’re sure of what you want."
You swallow.
"But I am sure of what I feel," you say.
She holds your gaze. The air between you stays charged. Uneasy. Wanting.
"Then get ready," she whispers. "Because once you cross that little line," she traces it along your waist, "there’s no going back."
And then she kisses you quickly.
And for the first time, instead of fear, what you feel is desire.
What do you say, part 2??