modern au, slow burn ig, winter because i miss winter, fluff
moving to a new place closer to your work was the best decision you’ve ever made. for several reasons. the apartment is bigger — still feels unreal being able to afford it — and just… nicer. even makes cleaning somewhat enjoyable pastime. you even managed to get along with your neighbours — a big, but surprisingly quiet family — in a short notice. while those all are very good reasons to love it here, the main one is, undoubtedly, the bakery on your way to work.
you noticed it the first day after moving in. smelled it, to be exactly. hot, fresh pastry.. despite the desperate, yearning look you shot at that bakery, you couldn’t drop by because you were few minutes away from being. and why even bother moving in to be closer?
on your way back to your apartment you finally got the opportunity to get in, only to see a crowd inside. it was already close to five in the evening, and the bakery buzzed with voices, clinking cups, children running between chairs. you squeezed inside, feeling almost guilty for taking up space among so many obvious regulars. families, friends, lovers, loners, it didn’t matter. that’s when you found out how popular the place was. and when you saw her for the very first time. sevika.
you thought she looked almost comical: all muscles, furrowed eyebrows, strict gaze and hands in flour with her apron on. reminded you of those characters in cartoons that look intimidating but turn out to be sweetest people ever. sevika was not one of those.
the smell made your head spin. sweet, buttery, yeasty, warm. you scanned the glass display — golden croissants, puff pastries glistening with sugar, little cakes in neat rows. you wanted everything, which meant you could decide on nothing.
“uh…” you started, awkwardly pointing at two different trays. “which one do you think is better?”
behind the counter, sevika looked up. close, she was even more striking. her eyes narrowed as if she was already regretting answering.
“depends,” she said flatly. “you want sweet or savory?”
“both?” you offered weakly.
a pause. then she sighed, turned, pulled two items without another word and handed them over in a small paper bag.
you paid, muttered thanks, and practically fled to the corner table. the first bite — crispy shell, soft layers melting on your tongue, buttery and rich in a way that made your toes curl. it slipped out of you before you could stop it:
heads turned. you slapped your hand over your mouth, cheeks burning. when you glanced back at the counter, sevika was watching you. and — was that a smirk tugging at her lips?
you panicked, stammered out, “sorry!” and bolted out the door, bag clutched to your chest.
the next morning you woke up earlier than you needed to. your excuse was “to beat the traffic,” but really it was the thought of that damn cheese bun. at seven thirty, the bakery was quieter, sunlight slanting through the big windows. you slipped in, and there she was again. tying her apron, hair pulled back.
you ordered coffee, tried something new, and this time she didn’t just hand it over.
“you’re the one who swore yesterday, right?” sevika said — and you’re sure about this — just to fuck with you.
you froze mid-reach. “right. sorry again. it just was.. really good. although i’m sure you already know that.”
her brow quirked and you saw the faintest curve of her mouth. not quite a smile, but close enough to make your stomach flip.
days bled together after that. you stopped every time, because that smell was impossible to ignore. only that. well, almost. when you asked what sevika recommended (which you know she doesn’t like) she would grumble something short like “the cheese rolls are decent” but she always picked out the best ones for you. sometimes you lingered, sipping your coffee at the counter, making some comment just to see if she’d bite.
she often did. in small ways — a dry remark, a half-smirk, a low chuckle when you nearly burned your tongue on coffee.
once, when you asked if she ever got sick of the smell of fresh bread, she shot back, “do you ever get sick of hearing yourself talk?” but her eyes were amused, and she nudged the bag closer to you like an apology.
little by little, the routine formed. your mornings started with her. and you realized that the bakery wasn’t just on your way to work anymore — it was the reason you could get up with a smile on your face.
the cold bites at your cheeks, sharp and pinking your skin as you pull the scarf higher, tucking your chin into wool. you’re not really hungry — you had breakfast just an hour ago — but the craving is very specific, very real. pain au chocolat.
and maybe, possibly, the woman who sells it.
the bakery windows glow like lanterns against the grey morning, condensation fogging the glass. inside, it looks different. cozier. strings of evergreen garlands draped clumsily across the counter, a box of tangled lights at sevika’s feet.
you push open the door, the bell chiming softly. no one else inside. just her, standing on a stool, frowning at a crooked paper star she’s trying to tape above the chalkboard menu.
“you’re late,” she says without turning, voice low, scratchy from concentration.
“it’s my day off,” you answer, tugging off your gloves. “and i was promised chocolate pastries by the universe.”
now she does glance at you, just a flick of her eye over her shoulder. “promised by who?”
“fate,” you say solemnly. “also, you. indirectly. yesterday you said you’d start baking them more often.”
she exhales a half-laugh, half-scoff, climbing down from the stool. “you’re a weirdo.”
“i’ve been called worse.” you wander toward the counter, eyeing the tray already half-filled with gingerbread cookies shaped like little men. “look at you, going festive. never thought i’d see it.”
“don’t start,” she mutters, adjusting the garland with one big hand. “it’s for the customers.”
“mmhmm.” you reach for the end of the garland lying limp on the counter. “here, let me.”
but you’re already stepping onto the stool she abandoned. it wobbles. you squeak, grabbing the shelf for balance.
“—fall,” she finishes dryly, one hand shooting out instinctively to steady you by the hip.
“i’m fine,” you insist, though your heart is in your throat.
“sure, you are,” she grumbles, not moving her hand until you’ve looped the garland properly.
eventually, you hop down, brushing invisible dust from your coat. she’s watching you with that unreadable look — half exasperation, half amusement.
“tea,” she says suddenly. not a question, a statement. she disappears behind the counter, clinking cups, pouring something steaming. returns with a mug, sets it in your hands before you can protest with that pain au chocolat you wanted. “on the house.” then she pushes a gingerbread man toward you.
you blink at her. “this is the nicest mug of tea and cookie combo i’ve ever been bullied into accepting.”
“don’t get used to it.” but she sits beside you on the bench against the window, stretching out her long legs, apron dusted with flour.
you sip, warmth sliding down your chest. the cookie crunches, spiced and sweet. “this is unfairly good. do you secretly hate me? is that why you’re ruining my standards for food everywhere else?”
she snorts. “i don’t have to try that hard.”
“ouch.” you bump your shoulder into hers lightly.
the banter hums between you, the comfortable kind that’s grown over weeks — little jabs, easy grins. at one point she leans back, rubbing her forehead with the heel of her hand, leaving a faint streak of flour along her temple.
“uh,” you gesture vaguely. “you’ve got—“
you reach before thinking, fingers brushing toward her face. her hand snaps up, catching your wrist mid-air, firm but not rough.
you pause. her gaze sharpens, unreadable.
“there’s flour,” you explain quietly. “let me.”
a beat passes. then she exhales, releasing your wrist. you gently wipe the smudge away with your thumb, lingering just a second too long. her jaw flexes, but she doesn’t move.
she opens her mouth, but the door jingles, a burst of cold air rushing in with a bundled-up older man. sevika clears her throat, straightening like nothing happened, standing to greet the customer.
it’s subtle, the shift. the way sevika straightens her shoulders as she turns to the older man. her voice is steady, polite, stripped of the dry humor she always aims at you. “good morning. how’s your wife?” she asks, and it’s genuine. she moves quickly, efficient: bagging up rolls, ringing up change, offering a small nod of thanks.
no smirks. no teasing remarks. just professionalism, smooth as the sugar glaze cooling behind the counter.
and you realize. this isn’t just a bakery, and she isn’t just some gruff woman who hands you croissants with a side of sarcasm. there is a whole world in her that you’ve only brushed against but so desperately want to be let inside.
you sip your tea and wonder: what does she do when the shop lights go out? what’s on her playlist when she cleans up? does she hum along or let silence fill the air? does she watch movies, binge shows, or fall asleep halfway through? does she prefer red sauce or white on pizza — hell, does she even like pizza? what colour makes her pause when she walks through a store? what kind of kid was she? what kind of person is she, outside this little square of light and flour?
by the time sevika comes back, wiping her hands on her apron, your chest is buzzing with questions. too many to ask. too much to admit. although one spills out before you can cage it:
“when do you get off work today?”
for the first time, sevika looks confused. her brow furrows, like she’s waiting for the catch. “lunch. around one. ran takes over.”
your throat feels tight, but you push through. “then—” you set down your mug, fingers fiddling with the handle, “—have lunch with me.”
she studies you, unreadable for a long beat. then one corner of her mouth twitches, almost imperceptible. “you’re asking me out?”
you swallow, suddenly so awkward. “i’m asking you to eat something that isn’t bread for once.”
her laugh is quiet, low, surprising even herself. “if one of us eats too much bread, it’s you, trust me. be here at one.”
you don’t mean to stress about it. it’s just lunch. that’s what you tell yourself while you stand in front of your closet, hands on your hips, staring at the exact same clothes you wear every week. the same t-shirts, the same sweaters, the same jeans. it’s just sevika. you’ve sat across from her a hundred times, chewing on pastries she’s smirked at you for buying too many of. but this is different, isn’t it?
you pull out one shirt, frown, toss it on the bed. another. too formal. too casual. too much color. not enough color. it’s ridiculous. you grab a random hoodie just to shut your brain up. “it’s lunch,” you mutter under your breath, shoving your arms through the sleeves. “just. lunch.”
the bakery smells faintly of sugar and yeast even when you walk past on your way to meet her. you catch her stepping out of the back door, apron folded over one arm, hair tied back but loose strands already falling forward. she looks more relaxed out here, like the shift between worker and woman is visible in the curve of her shoulders.
“you’re on time,” she says, amused, locking the door behind her.
“you sound surprised,” you shoot back, stuffing your hands in your hoodie pocket.
“i am.” she grins and nods her chin down the street. “so, where’s this big mysterious lunch spot you’ve got planned?”
you hadn’t thought that far. panic flickers through you, but you cover it with a shrug. “depends. do you want greasy pizza or questionable sushi?”
she snorts. “those are my options? you must really like me.”
“don’t flatter yourself.” your heart does a little flip, though, when she falls into step next to you.
you end up at a tiny pizza place tucked into the corner of a block. cracked leather booths, sticky tables, the kind of place you’d never pick for a first date. but it feels safe. casual.
“i’ll get this one,” sevika says, already pulling out her wallet.
“no, i invited you. you don’t have to—“
“i want to.” she doesn’t look at you when she says it, like the words slipped out unfiltered.
you slide into a booth while she waits for the order. you watch her without meaning to. how she leans her hip against the counter, arms crossed, talking to the cashier in that easy, dry tone. it’s stupid, but your chest tightens. she’s just ordering pizza, but you want to know everything about her.
she sets the tray down between you and raises an eyebrow. “pepperoni okay?”
the first few bites are quiet, the clatter of plates and faint music filling the space. then you blurt out, “what’s your favorite color?”
she pauses mid-bite, brows lifting. “that’s random.”
she chews, swallows. “dark blue, i guess.”
“why not?” she smirks, then tilts her head at you. “what’s yours?”
“huh. explains the sweatshirt.”
you glance down like you’d forgotten what you were wearing, heat prickling your neck. she chuckles, tearing off another slice.
it unravels like that. question after question, some dumb, some sharp, all of them tugging at threads you didn’t know you wanted to pull.
“do you even eat sweets when you’re not at work?”
“yeah, but not the fancy stuff. i like simple. oatmeal cookies, that kind of thing.”
“oatmeal cookies? wow. i thought you’d say something cool like dark chocolate with chili flakes.”
she laughs, shaking her head. “sorry to disappoint.”
you raise your brows, sceptical, “i don’t believe you.”
sevika looks at you with the most really look on her face. of all her answers — you decided to doubt this one? as if there aren’t any people who don’t geek out over movies.
“is it paddington?” you smile, idea of sevika loving the animated bear suddenly so cute and realistic in your head.
“what the fuck is paddington?”
your mouth opens, dramatically wide. “oh, сome on! this is just insulting!”
“why would you think that my favourite movie is a story about a bear who eats marmelade all the time?” sevika’s question sounds very curious, like she really wants to know how you came to this conclusion.
“so you know paddington?”
“will you make me a marmalade sandwich?”
after the plates are empty, neither of you rushes to leave. the table becomes this anchor for the two of you, conversation spilling into softer places. hobbies, music, late-night habits.
“i’m trying to teach myself guitar,” she admits at one point, eyes flicking down like she’s embarrassed.
you almost choke on your soda. “what? sevika, that’s cool. adorable, really.”
“don’t call me adorable.”
time slips without you noticing. the lunch crowd thins. the sunlight through the grimy window angles lower. eventually, she glances at her watch and sighs. “i should get back before they set the place on fire without me.”
you want to groan. you don’t want it to end.
she stands, stretching, then looks at you with something unreadable in her expression. “this was nice.”
“yeah,” you manage, your throat tight. “we should do it again.” it sounds more like a question, even though you’re pretty sure she would want it too.
“yeah,” she echoes, a corner of her mouth tugging up. “next time, you’re picking somewhere better than pizza.”
outside, the air smells like rain. you part ways on the sidewalk, but you keep replaying every second all the way home.
it happens on a thursday morning, just like always. you stop by the bakery on your way to work, half-awake, craving something warm and sweet. sevika’s behind the counter, sleeves rolled, hair tied back, looking like she’s already lived three lives before the clock even hit 9.
“your usual?” she asks, already reaching for the tray.
“you know me too well,” you mumble, passing her the bills.
she hands you the bag, but doesn’t let go right away. her fingers brush yours and she hesitates, almost like she’s debating something. then, casually — too casually — she says, “you busy tonight?”
you blink, startled. “uh… not really. why?”
“come over for dinner.” she says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like she’s asked you a million times before. “my place. around seven?”
your brain short-circuits. dinner. her place. you.
“yeah,” you hear yourself say, way too fast. “yeah, sure.”
she finally lets go of the bag, smirking at your wide-eyed expression. “good. see you then.”
you spend the entire day useless at work. your thoughts spin in circles: what will she cook? what does her apartment look like? what if you spill wine on her couch and she never talks to you again? your coworker asks you a simple question about a spreadsheet and you just stare at them until they wave their hand in your face.
by five o’clock, you’re practically vibrating. you rush home, tear through your closet again, but this time you don’t let yourself spiral. you pick something simple but nicer than before. something that says “i tried” without screaming it. a little perfume. accessories.
by the time you’re standing outside her door, your heart is pounding in your ears. you knock.
the door swings open. sevika’s in jeans and a loose shirt, apron still tied around her waist. her hair’s a little messy, like she’s been moving around a lot. and god — she smells like garlic, herbs, something roasting.
“hey,” she says, stepping aside to let you in. “you made it.”
“wouldn’t miss it.” your voice sounds steadier than you feel.
her apartment surprises you. you expected… you don’t know what, exactly. but it’s warm. books stacked on the coffee table, a plant by the window that looks half-alive, framed photos on the wall that you want to ask about but don’t yet.
the kitchen is small, cozy, alive with the smell of food. pots on the stove, a bottle of wine already open.
“wow,” you murmur, leaning on the counter. “you really went all out.”
she shrugs, stirring something. “figured it was my turn.”
the food’s incredible—better than you expected, though you should’ve known. roasted chicken, vegetables, bread that tastes fresh even though she probably baked it yesterday morning at the bakery.
“this is amazing,” you tell her around your third bite.
“good,” she says, smirking. “would’ve been embarrassing if i poisoned you on the second date.”
“so it’s an official date.”
she pauses for half a second, then lifts her glass. “yeah.”
wine loosens both of you. conversation flows, winding through music, stupid work stories, embarrassing moments. sevika’s laugh gets easier, freer. you lean closer without meaning to. at one point she teases you for the way you cut your food too carefully, and you nudge her knee under the table.
by the time the plates are pushed aside, you’re tipsy, grinning, warmth blooming everywhere. she leans back in her chair, watching you with that half-lidded gaze that makes your stomach somersault.
“what?” you ask, nervous and thrilled.
“nothing,” she says, voice low. “you’re cuter when you’re flushed.”
your brain doesn’t even get the chance to argue before she leans in across the table. her lips brush yours soft, testing, then firmer when you don’t pull away.
you kiss her back, heart racing, hand sliding instinctively to her jaw. the taste of wine lingers between you. she chuckles against your mouth, deep and rough, and it makes you smile into the kiss.
eventually you break apart, breathless.
“i, um—” you start, but she cuts you off with another quick kiss, like she doesn’t want you to overthink.
“stay a while,” she murmurs, thumb brushing your wrist where your hand rests on the table.
and god help you, you nod.
the next moment, you’re already on the couch with her arm sliding around your waist, pulling you closer, closer, until you’re practically straddling her. you laugh into her mouth, muffled, because it feels ridiculous and inevitable at the same time.
“comfortable?” she mutters against your lips, and you can hear the smirk.
“very.” you nip at her bottom lip just to hear her suck in a sharp breath.
her hands start to wander then, unhurried but bold — over your hips, down your sides, slipping under the hem of your shirt just enough to feel skin. it sends goosebumps racing up your spine. you grab her wrist like you might stop her, but you don’t.
“sev—” you start, but your voice cracks when her palm splays warm and wide over your back.
“hm?” she hums, pretending she’s innocent.
“you’re…” you can’t even finish.
she chuckles, low, pleased, and kisses you again, deeper this time. her other hand tangles in your hair, steadying you like she already knows you’d melt otherwise.
you pull back just enough to breathe, foreheads nearly touching. “you’re really thorough,” you tease, breathless.
her grin is sharp. “baker’s hands. strong grip.”
you swat her shoulder, laughing, but she just takes advantage of your distraction to nip at your jaw, trailing kisses down to your neck. it makes you shiver, fingers tightening in the fabric of her shirt.
“sevika,” you warn, except it doesn’t sound very warning when it comes out more like a sigh.
“what?” she murmurs against your skin, all mock-innocence again. “i’m just—appreciating.”
her hands roam again, slower now, like she’s memorizing you. every curve, every flinch, every sharp breath.
and then she leans back, looks at you — really looks. your flushed cheeks, your messy hair, the way you’re practically draped over her.
“you’re trouble,” she says finally, voice low, like it’s only for you.
“takes one to know one,” you shoot back, still breathless.
sevika kisses you again, smiling this time.
you shift, almost tipping, and she catches you easily, her grip iron around your waist. “careful,” she breathes, though the glint in her eye says she’s anything but.
“shut up,” you whisper, and kiss her again just to prove the point.
time blurs. it’s all warmth and pressure and the sound of both your breathing. the couch creaks once when you move too eagerly, and you both laugh into the kiss, but it doesn’t slow either of you down.
eventually, you pull back, panting, lips swollen, your hands still tangled in her shirt. sevika leans back against the couch, looking at you like you’ve just undone her completely. her chest rises and falls fast, her hair a little messy, a lazy grin tugging at her mouth.
“yeah,” she rasps, voice rough from all the kissing. “definitely trouble.”
taglist: @riotstemple29 @blurveil @lonerslug @ggutpunch @erythraeanoriana @hotmusclebabe @h2pinky @blessupblessup @em88ma @whatsupwithjinx @undercoverdesire @orinch-juice @nymanas @shxdy0ariia @em88ma @lez-zuha @likepinterest (please comment if you want to be removed/added)
romaincrisis
tangentwithtanner
kaledo-art
vaporwave
areudirty
discoholicmusic
ellievsbear