I am officially back, and I couldn’t be happier to be here again! First and foremost, I want to send a heartfelt thank you to each and every one of you who have stuck by my side, continued to support my creations, and filled this little corner of the internet with kindness.
A few months ago, as I was preparing for my return, life had other plans, and I had to step away from writing for a while. But just like a batch of dough left to rise, sometimes we need a little extra time before we're ready to step back into the warmth of the oven.
Now, I’m thrilled to announce not only my return but also a fresh rebranding of my blog! As I’ve been finding my footing again (a work in progress, as always), I’ve fallen in love with new characters who have brought me comfort. Pedro’s stories, in particular, have been a constant source of joy, so you’ll be seeing a lot more of him and his world in my upcoming posts.
This blog is a blend of two of my greatest passions—writing and the dream of owning a bakery. To me, a bakery is more than just a place for sweets; it’s a cozy little haven where you can always find something warm, comforting, and just right for the moment. That’s exactly what I hope this space becomes for you—a place where you can always stop by, find a little treat for your soul, and feel at home.
So, grab a cup of tea, settle in, and let’s share stories together. I can’t wait to have you here, and I hope this blog brings you even a fraction of the warmth and kindness this community has given me. My door (or rather, my comment section and messages!) is always open, so don’t hesitate to pull up a chair and chat.
Warnings: Mentions of being vulnerable and feeling alone
Summary: In a cozy little bakery where the scent of honey and warm bread lingers in the air, you find an unexpected refuge. Always the one others lean on, you've never known what it feels like to be caught when you fall—until Pedro, the quiet, steady baker, offers you more than just a slice of comfort. With flour-dusted hands and a knowing smile, he teaches you that some burdens are meant to be shared and that, sometimes, the sweetest thing isn’t the bread itself, but the company that comes with it.
Note: A little kneading in process! Just like a good loaf needs time to rise, I’m still shaping the format of these stories! You might notice a few changes here and there as I find the perfect recipe, but the heart of it will always stay the same—warm, comforting, and made with care. In the meantime, you can check out the Pinterest board for this story for all the cozy vibes! Thanks for sticking around while this dough rises!
The first time I walked into the bakery, it was an escape. The second time, it was a return.
I told myself it was just the warmth of the place that drew me back—the scent of freshly baked bread curling into the air like an embrace, the hum of quiet conversations, the golden light softening the sharp edges of the world outside. But when I stepped through the door and saw Pedro behind the counter, flour dusted across his forearms, his sleeves pushed up carelessly, his gaze lifting at the sound of the bell, I knew that wasn’t entirely true.
He saw me, and something flickered across his face—not surprise, but recognition.
His mouth curved, slow and knowing. “Back already?”
I hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”
Pedro set down the loaf he’d been scoring, wiped his hands on a cloth, and leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the counter. “Told you,” he murmured. “First slice is just an introduction. Second one means you’re a regular now.”
I huffed a quiet laugh. The word regular settled inside me, warm and unfamiliar.
He didn’t ask why I had come back. He didn’t need to. Instead, he turned, cutting into a fresh loaf with the same careful precision I had seen before. The knife sliced through the crust with a crisp, satisfying sound. A moment later, he placed the plate in front of me, the slice thick and golden, the honey glistening where it had seeped into the soft center.
Pedro untied his apron, tossed it onto the counter. “Go sit,” he said, already moving around to join me. “I’ll bring the coffee.”
I blinked. “You will?”
He raised a brow. “Why not?”
I didn’t have an argument for that.
I took the same table by the window, the one that had felt like a temporary refuge the first time. Now, it felt like something else—something I wasn’t quite ready to name.
Pedro arrived a moment later, setting two cups of coffee on the table before sinking into the chair across from me.
“So,” he said, studying me, “bad day, or just a long one?”
I let out a short breath of laughter. “Aren’t they the same thing?”
Pedro didn’t argue. Just wrapped his hands around his coffee, waiting.
I picked at the crust of my bread, the words pressing against my ribs. “You ever get tired of being the one people lean on?” I asked.
His gaze flickered, something shifting in it. “Yeah,” he said, quiet. “I do.”
I exhaled slowly. “I’m always there. Always. The one people call when they need something, when they need to vent, when their lives are unraveling.” I swallowed hard, staring at my plate. “But the moment I need someone? Suddenly, everyone’s busy. Suddenly, I’m ‘strong’ enough to handle it on my own.”
Pedro’s fingers tapped absently against his cup. The silence between us wasn’t empty—it was thick, weighty, full of the things we both understood without saying.
“I think,” he said finally, “people get so used to seeing you hold everything together, they forget you might need someone to hold you up, too.”
The words landed somewhere deep.
I didn’t answer. Just tore a small piece of bread between my fingers, let the honey stick to my skin.
Pedro exhaled, then stood abruptly. “C’mon.”
I frowned. “What?”
He jerked his head toward the back of the bakery. “Come with me.”
I hesitated, but something about the way he said it left no room for argument. So I followed him, past the shelves lined with loaves, past the counter where customers placed their orders, through the doorway leading into the kitchen.
The air was heavier here, thick with the scent of yeast and butter, the quiet symphony of dough rising beneath linen cloths, ovens humming low.
Pedro grabbed a small ball of dough, rolled it between his hands before pressing it into mine.
“Here,” he said. “Shape it.”
I hesitated. “I don’t know how.”
“Good,” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. “That means you won’t overthink it.”
I let out a breath of laughter, but did as he said. The dough was soft, pliant beneath my fingers, but when I tried to shape it into something, it came out uneven, lumpy.
Pedro huffed a quiet chuckle. “Not bad for a first try.” Then, without hesitation, he reached out, his hands covering mine, adjusting my fingers with a steady touch.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe.
His hands were warm, firm but careful, guiding mine without rushing, without correcting too much. The closeness of him, the quiet way he just existed beside me, made my pulse stutter in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
When I looked up, he was already watching me.
His eyes flickered to my hands, then back to my face. There was something unreadable in his expression, something quiet and considering.
The moment stretched, unspoken.
Then Pedro stepped back, exhaling softly. “Alright,” he said, voice a little rougher than before. “I think that’s enough for today.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
As we walked back to the front of the bakery, the outside world felt distant, unimportant.
Pedro leaned against the counter, watching me carefully. “You don’t have to be strong all the time, you know.”
I met his gaze. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”
His lips pressed together for a moment before he nodded, as if deciding something. Then, without a word, he reached behind the counter, cut another slice of pan de miel, and placed it in front of me.
I frowned. “Pedro—”
“Shh.” His smirk was softer this time, almost teasing. “Let someone take care of you for once.”
I stared at him, something unspoken tightening in my chest.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself.
Warnings: Mentions of being vulnerable and feeling alone
Summary: In a cozy little bakery where the scent of honey and warm bread lingers in the air, you find an unexpected refuge. Always the one others lean on, you've never known what it feels like to be caught when you fall—until Pedro, the quiet, steady baker, offers you more than just a slice of comfort. With flour-dusted hands and a knowing smile, he teaches you that some burdens are meant to be shared and that, sometimes, the sweetest thing isn’t the bread itself, but the company that comes with it.
Note: A little kneading in process! Just like a good loaf needs time to rise, I’m still shaping the format of these stories! You might notice a few changes here and there as I find the perfect recipe, but the heart of it will always stay the same—warm, comforting, and made with care. In the meantime, you can check out the Pinterest board for this story for all the cozy vibes! Thanks for sticking around while this dough rises!
The first time I walked into the bakery, it was an escape. The second time, it was a return.
I told myself it was just the warmth of the place that drew me back—the scent of freshly baked bread curling into the air like an embrace, the hum of quiet conversations, the golden light softening the sharp edges of the world outside. But when I stepped through the door and saw Pedro behind the counter, flour dusted across his forearms, his sleeves pushed up carelessly, his gaze lifting at the sound of the bell, I knew that wasn’t entirely true.
He saw me, and something flickered across his face—not surprise, but recognition.
His mouth curved, slow and knowing. “Back already?”
I hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”
Pedro set down the loaf he’d been scoring, wiped his hands on a cloth, and leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the counter. “Told you,” he murmured. “First slice is just an introduction. Second one means you’re a regular now.”
I huffed a quiet laugh. The word regular settled inside me, warm and unfamiliar.
He didn’t ask why I had come back. He didn’t need to. Instead, he turned, cutting into a fresh loaf with the same careful precision I had seen before. The knife sliced through the crust with a crisp, satisfying sound. A moment later, he placed the plate in front of me, the slice thick and golden, the honey glistening where it had seeped into the soft center.
Pedro untied his apron, tossed it onto the counter. “Go sit,” he said, already moving around to join me. “I’ll bring the coffee.”
I blinked. “You will?”
He raised a brow. “Why not?”
I didn’t have an argument for that.
I took the same table by the window, the one that had felt like a temporary refuge the first time. Now, it felt like something else—something I wasn’t quite ready to name.
Pedro arrived a moment later, setting two cups of coffee on the table before sinking into the chair across from me.
“So,” he said, studying me, “bad day, or just a long one?”
I let out a short breath of laughter. “Aren’t they the same thing?”
Pedro didn’t argue. Just wrapped his hands around his coffee, waiting.
I picked at the crust of my bread, the words pressing against my ribs. “You ever get tired of being the one people lean on?” I asked.
His gaze flickered, something shifting in it. “Yeah,” he said, quiet. “I do.”
I exhaled slowly. “I’m always there. Always. The one people call when they need something, when they need to vent, when their lives are unraveling.” I swallowed hard, staring at my plate. “But the moment I need someone? Suddenly, everyone’s busy. Suddenly, I’m ‘strong’ enough to handle it on my own.”
Pedro’s fingers tapped absently against his cup. The silence between us wasn’t empty—it was thick, weighty, full of the things we both understood without saying.
“I think,” he said finally, “people get so used to seeing you hold everything together, they forget you might need someone to hold you up, too.”
The words landed somewhere deep.
I didn’t answer. Just tore a small piece of bread between my fingers, let the honey stick to my skin.
Pedro exhaled, then stood abruptly. “C’mon.”
I frowned. “What?”
He jerked his head toward the back of the bakery. “Come with me.”
I hesitated, but something about the way he said it left no room for argument. So I followed him, past the shelves lined with loaves, past the counter where customers placed their orders, through the doorway leading into the kitchen.
The air was heavier here, thick with the scent of yeast and butter, the quiet symphony of dough rising beneath linen cloths, ovens humming low.
Pedro grabbed a small ball of dough, rolled it between his hands before pressing it into mine.
“Here,” he said. “Shape it.”
I hesitated. “I don’t know how.”
“Good,” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. “That means you won’t overthink it.”
I let out a breath of laughter, but did as he said. The dough was soft, pliant beneath my fingers, but when I tried to shape it into something, it came out uneven, lumpy.
Pedro huffed a quiet chuckle. “Not bad for a first try.” Then, without hesitation, he reached out, his hands covering mine, adjusting my fingers with a steady touch.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe.
His hands were warm, firm but careful, guiding mine without rushing, without correcting too much. The closeness of him, the quiet way he just existed beside me, made my pulse stutter in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
When I looked up, he was already watching me.
His eyes flickered to my hands, then back to my face. There was something unreadable in his expression, something quiet and considering.
The moment stretched, unspoken.
Then Pedro stepped back, exhaling softly. “Alright,” he said, voice a little rougher than before. “I think that’s enough for today.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
As we walked back to the front of the bakery, the outside world felt distant, unimportant.
Pedro leaned against the counter, watching me carefully. “You don’t have to be strong all the time, you know.”
I met his gaze. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”
His lips pressed together for a moment before he nodded, as if deciding something. Then, without a word, he reached behind the counter, cut another slice of pan de miel, and placed it in front of me.
I frowned. “Pedro—”
“Shh.” His smirk was softer this time, almost teasing. “Let someone take care of you for once.”
I stared at him, something unspoken tightening in my chest.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself.
Warnings: Mentions of being vulnerable and feeling alone
Summary: In a cozy little bakery where the scent of honey and warm bread lingers in the air, you find an unexpected refuge. Always the one others lean on, you've never known what it feels like to be caught when you fall—until Pedro, the quiet, steady baker, offers you more than just a slice of comfort. With flour-dusted hands and a knowing smile, he teaches you that some burdens are meant to be shared and that, sometimes, the sweetest thing isn’t the bread itself, but the company that comes with it.
Note: A little kneading in process! Just like a good loaf needs time to rise, I’m still shaping the format of these stories! You might notice a few changes here and there as I find the perfect recipe, but the heart of it will always stay the same—warm, comforting, and made with care. In the meantime, you can check out the Pinterest board for this story for all the cozy vibes! Thanks for sticking around while this dough rises!
The first time I walked into the bakery, it was an escape. The second time, it was a return.
I told myself it was just the warmth of the place that drew me back—the scent of freshly baked bread curling into the air like an embrace, the hum of quiet conversations, the golden light softening the sharp edges of the world outside. But when I stepped through the door and saw Pedro behind the counter, flour dusted across his forearms, his sleeves pushed up carelessly, his gaze lifting at the sound of the bell, I knew that wasn’t entirely true.
He saw me, and something flickered across his face—not surprise, but recognition.
His mouth curved, slow and knowing. “Back already?”
I hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”
Pedro set down the loaf he’d been scoring, wiped his hands on a cloth, and leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the counter. “Told you,” he murmured. “First slice is just an introduction. Second one means you’re a regular now.”
I huffed a quiet laugh. The word regular settled inside me, warm and unfamiliar.
He didn’t ask why I had come back. He didn’t need to. Instead, he turned, cutting into a fresh loaf with the same careful precision I had seen before. The knife sliced through the crust with a crisp, satisfying sound. A moment later, he placed the plate in front of me, the slice thick and golden, the honey glistening where it had seeped into the soft center.
Pedro untied his apron, tossed it onto the counter. “Go sit,” he said, already moving around to join me. “I’ll bring the coffee.”
I blinked. “You will?”
He raised a brow. “Why not?”
I didn’t have an argument for that.
I took the same table by the window, the one that had felt like a temporary refuge the first time. Now, it felt like something else—something I wasn’t quite ready to name.
Pedro arrived a moment later, setting two cups of coffee on the table before sinking into the chair across from me.
“So,” he said, studying me, “bad day, or just a long one?”
I let out a short breath of laughter. “Aren’t they the same thing?”
Pedro didn’t argue. Just wrapped his hands around his coffee, waiting.
I picked at the crust of my bread, the words pressing against my ribs. “You ever get tired of being the one people lean on?” I asked.
His gaze flickered, something shifting in it. “Yeah,” he said, quiet. “I do.”
I exhaled slowly. “I’m always there. Always. The one people call when they need something, when they need to vent, when their lives are unraveling.” I swallowed hard, staring at my plate. “But the moment I need someone? Suddenly, everyone’s busy. Suddenly, I’m ‘strong’ enough to handle it on my own.”
Pedro’s fingers tapped absently against his cup. The silence between us wasn’t empty—it was thick, weighty, full of the things we both understood without saying.
“I think,” he said finally, “people get so used to seeing you hold everything together, they forget you might need someone to hold you up, too.”
The words landed somewhere deep.
I didn’t answer. Just tore a small piece of bread between my fingers, let the honey stick to my skin.
Pedro exhaled, then stood abruptly. “C’mon.”
I frowned. “What?”
He jerked his head toward the back of the bakery. “Come with me.”
I hesitated, but something about the way he said it left no room for argument. So I followed him, past the shelves lined with loaves, past the counter where customers placed their orders, through the doorway leading into the kitchen.
The air was heavier here, thick with the scent of yeast and butter, the quiet symphony of dough rising beneath linen cloths, ovens humming low.
Pedro grabbed a small ball of dough, rolled it between his hands before pressing it into mine.
“Here,” he said. “Shape it.”
I hesitated. “I don’t know how.”
“Good,” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. “That means you won’t overthink it.”
I let out a breath of laughter, but did as he said. The dough was soft, pliant beneath my fingers, but when I tried to shape it into something, it came out uneven, lumpy.
Pedro huffed a quiet chuckle. “Not bad for a first try.” Then, without hesitation, he reached out, his hands covering mine, adjusting my fingers with a steady touch.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe.
His hands were warm, firm but careful, guiding mine without rushing, without correcting too much. The closeness of him, the quiet way he just existed beside me, made my pulse stutter in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
When I looked up, he was already watching me.
His eyes flickered to my hands, then back to my face. There was something unreadable in his expression, something quiet and considering.
The moment stretched, unspoken.
Then Pedro stepped back, exhaling softly. “Alright,” he said, voice a little rougher than before. “I think that’s enough for today.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
As we walked back to the front of the bakery, the outside world felt distant, unimportant.
Pedro leaned against the counter, watching me carefully. “You don’t have to be strong all the time, you know.”
I met his gaze. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”
His lips pressed together for a moment before he nodded, as if deciding something. Then, without a word, he reached behind the counter, cut another slice of pan de miel, and placed it in front of me.
I frowned. “Pedro—”
“Shh.” His smirk was softer this time, almost teasing. “Let someone take care of you for once.”
I stared at him, something unspoken tightening in my chest.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself.
Fresh from the oven! I’ve just whipped up a Pinterest board filled with all the sweet, cozy inspirations behind Pedro’s Bakery! From golden, flaky pastries to warm café vibes, every pin is a little sprinkle of the heart and soul of this story. If you’re craving a taste of Pedro’s world, come take a peek and let the sweetness melt your heart! #PedrosBakery #BakedWithLove
The scent of warm bread and cinnamon wrapped around me the moment I pushed open the wooden door. A small bell chimed above my head, and the world outside—the one filled with stress, unanswered emails, and the weight of a thousand expectations—seemed to blur behind me.
The bakery was small, intimate in a way that made it feel almost untouched by the hurried world outside. Wooden shelves lined the walls, cradling loaves of every shape and size, their golden crusts glowing beneath soft yellow pendant lights. The glass display case held delicate pastries arranged like small works of art—glossy fruit tarts, croissants layered with chocolate, and thick cinnamon rolls, their icing just beginning to melt. The quiet hum of conversation filled the space, interrupted only by the soft clatter of ceramic cups and the occasional burst of laughter from the farthest table.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
Behind the counter stood a man, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, an apron tied loosely around his waist. Dark curls, slightly disheveled, framed his face. His hands—large, strong, dusted with flour—moved with practiced ease as he arranged fresh bread into neat rows. He looked up, catching my gaze. His mouth curved into an easy smile, one that felt impossibly genuine.
“First time here?” His voice was warm, rich, like coffee on a slow morning.
I nodded, stepping forward. “Yeah. I just—” I hesitated, glancing at the handwritten menu chalked onto a blackboard behind him. “I needed somewhere quiet.”
His smile didn’t falter. He just nodded, as if he understood exactly what I meant. “Then you came to the right place.”
I glanced at the display, overwhelmed by the choices. “What do you recommend?”
Pedro wiped his hands on a cloth and leaned against the counter, studying me—not in a way that felt intrusive, but as if he were considering something carefully. “Something sweet or something comforting?”
I swallowed. “Comforting.”
He didn’t ask why. Didn’t pry. Instead, he turned, pulling a plate from beneath the counter and carefully placing a thick slice of golden-brown bread onto it. The scent of butter and honey wafted up as he set it in front of me.
“Pan de miel,” he said. “My grandmother’s recipe. Best thing for bad days.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the care wrapped into such a simple offering. “You didn’t even ask what kind of day I’m having.”
Pedro wiped his hands on his apron and tilted his head slightly. “Didn’t have to.”
The weight of the past few weeks settled heavily on my chest. I didn’t even know this man’s last name, and yet, in this small moment, he felt like the first person to truly see me in a long time.
I took the plate to a small table by the window. The honey seeped into the bread, melting on my tongue, warmth spreading through my chest. I had barely taken a second bite when I heard his voice again.
“You mind if I sit?”
I looked up. Pedro held a cup of coffee in one hand, a second plate in the other—another slice of the same bread, still warm from the oven.
“Yeah,” I said, surprised by how much I meant it. “Of course.”
He pulled out the chair across from me and sat, exhaling as if he, too, was only just allowing himself a moment of pause. Up close, I noticed the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the dusting of flour on his forearm. He smelled of fresh dough, sugar, and something else—something warm and familiar.
“You run this place all by yourself?” I asked, breaking a small piece of bread between my fingers.
“Mostly.” He took a sip of coffee, glancing around as if seeing his own bakery through fresh eyes. “Had a few people helping when I first started, but they all moved on. It’s just me now.”
I frowned. “That sounds exhausting.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “It is. But I love it.” He gestured at the room around us—the shelves, the pastries, the customers quietly enjoying their morning. “This is home.”
I nodded slowly, letting his words settle.
“And you?” he asked. “What do you do when you’re not in need of a quiet bakery?”
I let out a short breath of laughter. “That’s a complicated answer.”
Pedro leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “I’ve got time.”
There was something disarming about him. Maybe it was the way he asked questions without demanding answers, the way he listened without rushing to fill the silence. Before I knew it, words began to spill out—about work, about expectations, about how lately it felt like I was running on empty, waiting for something to change but not knowing what.
Pedro listened. Really listened. He didn’t offer clichés or empty reassurances. Just the occasional nod, a quiet “I get that,” a thoughtful sip of coffee.
By the time my plate was empty and my coffee cup nearly drained, something in my chest felt lighter.
Pedro glanced at my plate, then back at me. “You know,” he said, a small smirk playing at his lips, “customers who sit and talk with the baker usually get a second slice.”
I raised a brow. “Is that so?”
He stood, grabbing my empty plate and balancing it in one hand like it was second nature. “Mmmhmm.” He gave me a look—one that felt like the start of something, even if I wasn’t sure what.
“Stay a while,” he added, already moving toward the counter. “I’ll get you another.”
And, for the first time in a long time, I wanted to.
The scent of warm bread and cinnamon wrapped around me the moment I pushed open the wooden door. A small bell chimed above my head, and the world outside—the one filled with stress, unanswered emails, and the weight of a thousand expectations—seemed to blur behind me.
The bakery was small, intimate in a way that made it feel almost untouched by the hurried world outside. Wooden shelves lined the walls, cradling loaves of every shape and size, their golden crusts glowing beneath soft yellow pendant lights. The glass display case held delicate pastries arranged like small works of art—glossy fruit tarts, croissants layered with chocolate, and thick cinnamon rolls, their icing just beginning to melt. The quiet hum of conversation filled the space, interrupted only by the soft clatter of ceramic cups and the occasional burst of laughter from the farthest table.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
Behind the counter stood a man, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, an apron tied loosely around his waist. Dark curls, slightly disheveled, framed his face. His hands—large, strong, dusted with flour—moved with practiced ease as he arranged fresh bread into neat rows. He looked up, catching my gaze. His mouth curved into an easy smile, one that felt impossibly genuine.
“First time here?” His voice was warm, rich, like coffee on a slow morning.
I nodded, stepping forward. “Yeah. I just—” I hesitated, glancing at the handwritten menu chalked onto a blackboard behind him. “I needed somewhere quiet.”
His smile didn’t falter. He just nodded, as if he understood exactly what I meant. “Then you came to the right place.”
I glanced at the display, overwhelmed by the choices. “What do you recommend?”
Pedro wiped his hands on a cloth and leaned against the counter, studying me—not in a way that felt intrusive, but as if he were considering something carefully. “Something sweet or something comforting?”
I swallowed. “Comforting.”
He didn’t ask why. Didn’t pry. Instead, he turned, pulling a plate from beneath the counter and carefully placing a thick slice of golden-brown bread onto it. The scent of butter and honey wafted up as he set it in front of me.
“Pan de miel,” he said. “My grandmother’s recipe. Best thing for bad days.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the care wrapped into such a simple offering. “You didn’t even ask what kind of day I’m having.”
Pedro wiped his hands on his apron and tilted his head slightly. “Didn’t have to.”
The weight of the past few weeks settled heavily on my chest. I didn’t even know this man’s last name, and yet, in this small moment, he felt like the first person to truly see me in a long time.
I took the plate to a small table by the window. The honey seeped into the bread, melting on my tongue, warmth spreading through my chest. I had barely taken a second bite when I heard his voice again.
“You mind if I sit?”
I looked up. Pedro held a cup of coffee in one hand, a second plate in the other—another slice of the same bread, still warm from the oven.
“Yeah,” I said, surprised by how much I meant it. “Of course.”
He pulled out the chair across from me and sat, exhaling as if he, too, was only just allowing himself a moment of pause. Up close, I noticed the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the dusting of flour on his forearm. He smelled of fresh dough, sugar, and something else—something warm and familiar.
“You run this place all by yourself?” I asked, breaking a small piece of bread between my fingers.
“Mostly.” He took a sip of coffee, glancing around as if seeing his own bakery through fresh eyes. “Had a few people helping when I first started, but they all moved on. It’s just me now.”
I frowned. “That sounds exhausting.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “It is. But I love it.” He gestured at the room around us—the shelves, the pastries, the customers quietly enjoying their morning. “This is home.”
I nodded slowly, letting his words settle.
“And you?” he asked. “What do you do when you’re not in need of a quiet bakery?”
I let out a short breath of laughter. “That’s a complicated answer.”
Pedro leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “I’ve got time.”
There was something disarming about him. Maybe it was the way he asked questions without demanding answers, the way he listened without rushing to fill the silence. Before I knew it, words began to spill out—about work, about expectations, about how lately it felt like I was running on empty, waiting for something to change but not knowing what.
Pedro listened. Really listened. He didn’t offer clichés or empty reassurances. Just the occasional nod, a quiet “I get that,” a thoughtful sip of coffee.
By the time my plate was empty and my coffee cup nearly drained, something in my chest felt lighter.
Pedro glanced at my plate, then back at me. “You know,” he said, a small smirk playing at his lips, “customers who sit and talk with the baker usually get a second slice.”
I raised a brow. “Is that so?”
He stood, grabbing my empty plate and balancing it in one hand like it was second nature. “Mmmhmm.” He gave me a look—one that felt like the start of something, even if I wasn’t sure what.
“Stay a while,” he added, already moving toward the counter. “I’ll get you another.”
And, for the first time in a long time, I wanted to.
The scent of warm bread and cinnamon wrapped around me the moment I pushed open the wooden door. A small bell chimed above my head, and the world outside—the one filled with stress, unanswered emails, and the weight of a thousand expectations—seemed to blur behind me.
The bakery was small, intimate in a way that made it feel almost untouched by the hurried world outside. Wooden shelves lined the walls, cradling loaves of every shape and size, their golden crusts glowing beneath soft yellow pendant lights. The glass display case held delicate pastries arranged like small works of art—glossy fruit tarts, croissants layered with chocolate, and thick cinnamon rolls, their icing just beginning to melt. The quiet hum of conversation filled the space, interrupted only by the soft clatter of ceramic cups and the occasional burst of laughter from the farthest table.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
Behind the counter stood a man, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, an apron tied loosely around his waist. Dark curls, slightly disheveled, framed his face. His hands—large, strong, dusted with flour—moved with practiced ease as he arranged fresh bread into neat rows. He looked up, catching my gaze. His mouth curved into an easy smile, one that felt impossibly genuine.
“First time here?” His voice was warm, rich, like coffee on a slow morning.
I nodded, stepping forward. “Yeah. I just—” I hesitated, glancing at the handwritten menu chalked onto a blackboard behind him. “I needed somewhere quiet.”
His smile didn’t falter. He just nodded, as if he understood exactly what I meant. “Then you came to the right place.”
I glanced at the display, overwhelmed by the choices. “What do you recommend?”
Pedro wiped his hands on a cloth and leaned against the counter, studying me—not in a way that felt intrusive, but as if he were considering something carefully. “Something sweet or something comforting?”
I swallowed. “Comforting.”
He didn’t ask why. Didn’t pry. Instead, he turned, pulling a plate from beneath the counter and carefully placing a thick slice of golden-brown bread onto it. The scent of butter and honey wafted up as he set it in front of me.
“Pan de miel,” he said. “My grandmother’s recipe. Best thing for bad days.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the care wrapped into such a simple offering. “You didn’t even ask what kind of day I’m having.”
Pedro wiped his hands on his apron and tilted his head slightly. “Didn’t have to.”
The weight of the past few weeks settled heavily on my chest. I didn’t even know this man’s last name, and yet, in this small moment, he felt like the first person to truly see me in a long time.
I took the plate to a small table by the window. The honey seeped into the bread, melting on my tongue, warmth spreading through my chest. I had barely taken a second bite when I heard his voice again.
“You mind if I sit?”
I looked up. Pedro held a cup of coffee in one hand, a second plate in the other—another slice of the same bread, still warm from the oven.
“Yeah,” I said, surprised by how much I meant it. “Of course.”
He pulled out the chair across from me and sat, exhaling as if he, too, was only just allowing himself a moment of pause. Up close, I noticed the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the dusting of flour on his forearm. He smelled of fresh dough, sugar, and something else—something warm and familiar.
“You run this place all by yourself?” I asked, breaking a small piece of bread between my fingers.
“Mostly.” He took a sip of coffee, glancing around as if seeing his own bakery through fresh eyes. “Had a few people helping when I first started, but they all moved on. It’s just me now.”
I frowned. “That sounds exhausting.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “It is. But I love it.” He gestured at the room around us—the shelves, the pastries, the customers quietly enjoying their morning. “This is home.”
I nodded slowly, letting his words settle.
“And you?” he asked. “What do you do when you’re not in need of a quiet bakery?”
I let out a short breath of laughter. “That’s a complicated answer.”
Pedro leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “I’ve got time.”
There was something disarming about him. Maybe it was the way he asked questions without demanding answers, the way he listened without rushing to fill the silence. Before I knew it, words began to spill out—about work, about expectations, about how lately it felt like I was running on empty, waiting for something to change but not knowing what.
Pedro listened. Really listened. He didn’t offer clichés or empty reassurances. Just the occasional nod, a quiet “I get that,” a thoughtful sip of coffee.
By the time my plate was empty and my coffee cup nearly drained, something in my chest felt lighter.
Pedro glanced at my plate, then back at me. “You know,” he said, a small smirk playing at his lips, “customers who sit and talk with the baker usually get a second slice.”
I raised a brow. “Is that so?”
He stood, grabbing my empty plate and balancing it in one hand like it was second nature. “Mmmhmm.” He gave me a look—one that felt like the start of something, even if I wasn’t sure what.
“Stay a while,” he added, already moving toward the counter. “I’ll get you another.”
And, for the first time in a long time, I wanted to.
Reader turns into the green eyed monster watching someone shamelessly flirt with mafia Chris.....
you knoowwww i have to write something about this. it’s a little longer than i’d intended but oh well!
warnings: smut mentioned, alcohol, language
"Club business".
You rolled your eyes as you sat at the empty club in the middle of the afternoon. The one that Chris had carried you out of a few weeks ago. In light of recent events... Chris wasn't letting you out of his sight. Part of you appreciated it, part of you thought it was pretty fucking stupid.
Chris told you approximately 3 times a week that he had 'club business' to handle and would disappear for hours. Today, he decided to drag you along and you found out what 'club business' really was.
Chris, Sebastian, Mr. Ricci, Vinnie, Russo, Romano, and a new guy named Benny sat around a poker table, laughing, smoking, and drinking whiskey as you sat across the room, resting your cheek against your elbow.
You tried to distract yourself, spending 20 minutes on the phone with Lydia, then doing some online shopping but this game was never fucking ending. You huffed out a sigh, looking over at the bartender, “Can I have a vodka soda?” If you were going to be stuck here, you might as well get drunk.
She nodded, moving around the bar to make your drink. You swiveled in the chair, turning back to face Chris and his crew, Romano cursing and laying his cards down while Chris smirked and collected chips. God, even playing a stupid card game he was fucking hot.
The bartender set your drink down on a coaster, turning her hand over, “$9.”
You looked down at her hand, cherry red nails clacking together as she motioned for you to hand her cash. You raised an eyebrow, “Sorry?”
“$9,” she repeated, snapping her pink bubblegum.
It took a ton of restraint not to laugh in her face, “You can add it to Chris’s tab,” you responded, picking up your drink and pressing the glass to your lips to take a sip.
“I’m not adding anything to Chris’s tab without him saying so,” she challenged, raising an eyebrow to match your annoyed look.
“Baby?” you called out, without breaking eye contact.
“Yeah?”
You took another sip, “Can I add this drink to your tab?”
He scoffed, “Why the fuck are you asking?”
Smiling, you looked away from her and met his confused gaze, “Just making sure,” you turned, bringing your left hand up to pinch the straw of your drink between your thumb and index finger, clearly showing off the giant rock on your hand, “If you could kindly add it to my husbands tab, I’d appreciate it,” you added a wink for your own passive aggressive pleasure, turning the chair back to the poker game.
Chris looked over at you and smiled, shaking his head. You shrugged innocently before taking another sip.
20 long minutes passed by and you remained sitting at the bar, bored out of your mind. You’d downed 2 more drinks in that time, starting to feel the effects of the vodka in your blood. You watched as the bartender walked around the bar and made her way over to the table, her obnoxious silver stripper heels clacking against the ground. She started with Romano, making her way around the table and collect empty glasses and drink orders.
Your jaw clenched when she walked up to Chris, her hand resting on his shoulder for entirely too long. She batted her eyelashes at him, licking her lips while she laughed at something Chris said. His expression led you to believe it wasn’t as funny as she thought it was. The logical side of your brain knew that a slutty bartender that smelled like Tide and cigarettes had nothing on you, but the slightly tipsy side, saw red. You gave her a second to remove her hand from Chris’s shoulder and despite his attempts to shrug her off, she didn’t budge. You let the jealousy get the best of you and downed the rest of your drink before hopping off the barstool and making your way over to where they played.
Chris eyed you as you sashayed your way over, hips swinging just enough to get his attention. He smirked as you got closer.
You walked up to her, grabbing her wrist and pulling it from Chris’s shoulder, “Pardon me,” you snapped, stepping between her and Chris before falling into his lap. She moved to Mr. Ricci who sat next to Chris, eyeing you through the thick, fake lashes poorly glued to her eyelids.
Chris’s hand rested on your hip, his thumb rubbing circles against your hipbone, his other hand holding his cards, “What’s up?”
You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, “You got an office here?”
“Yes,” he answered, smirking.
“Wanna show me?”
He chuckled, clearly amused by your jealousy and possessive nature, “I do,” he secured an arm around your waist, lifting you with him as he stood before placing you gently on the ground. He threw his cards on the table and dug his hand into his wallet, pulling out several hundred dollar bills, “I’m out,” he flicked the money onto the table, earning head shakes and knowing smiles from the rest of the guys. You squealed when he swatted your ass, "After you, cara,” he jerked his chin towards the back hallway and you happily complied, winking at the bartender once more for good measure.
He was never coming to ‘club business’ alone, ever again.
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This just sat perfectly in reading time while I was waiting for my facemask to set. It's amazing how the characters speak to me like I was one of the people around them watching while their stories evolved ✨
Hi, my name is Jesse and I’m addicted to a fictional babe called Captain Syverson. This blog is 🔥18+🔥. ⚠️🔞DO NOT INTERACT IF YOU’RE A MINOR🔞⚠️
You can talk to me I promise I won’t bite (I have anons switched off because humans can be unkind. But you can shoot me a msg and if you don’t want me to post it let me know).
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All my stories have some 18+ elements so please do not interact if you are a minor. I currently write for Captain Syverson and Detective Walter Marshall. My stories all feature OFC characters, adult themes and language.
Hi, I don't know if you are taking requests, but if you are, could I please ask for a drabble on how yours and Walter's relationship would be? Thank you!
In the movie, we get to see some little of soft bear Walter but I'm still craving for more. And guess what? I'm here for more!
Warnings: Mentions of Mental Health below the cut.
When you and Walter started dating you were both struggling. He was in the middle of a hard case to solve, and you were finishing your degree.
After his divorce, he never thought he could be deserving of love again, at least, not the pure kind of love you were offering him.
You were both a challenge to each other, but honestly, you were grateful for that. He didn't allow himself to be loved, and you were scared you weren't enough.
So, you reached out for professional help, started researching, reading books when he wasn't home, trying to understand better the place you were both in.
What you didn't know was that Walter himself was also trying to understand you better.
One day you found a book on his nightstand, tucked in between his briefs, on the theme of couples therapy. And the small gestures he has been doing quickly became clear to you on some of the pages you read.
That night you cooked dinner, his favorite meal, and cuddled him while you two watched a movie. Walter wasn't one to express his emotions, he felt like every time he tried to do that he worked himself up and became angry at himself for no reason.
The two of you figured that if your wishes were to spend the rest of your lives together, you might as well work on your barriers for real.
To help Walter express his emotions, every month, after your cycle, he would allow himself to feel anything he might be feeling: sadness, happiness, frustration...
After an entire week of cuddling you, comforting you, it was his time of the month to be pampered.
And it worked for both of you. His week was full of you cuddling him, doing a grocery shopping run for whatever craving he had for dinner, and taking baths together while you massaged his scalp.
And slowly, you started proving to each other that love came in every different way.
@blavikennbutcher Walter deserves all the hugs, god, that big man deserves everything.
I can just imagine him starting to show you how he felt for things you never thought he would let you have an insight. For example, how happy he felt whenever he had you and Faye home, the three of you making dinner after an afternoon full of cuddles and Christmas time movies
Hi, I don't know if you are taking requests, but if you are, could I please ask for a drabble on how yours and Walter's relationship would be? Thank you!
In the movie, we get to see some little of soft bear Walter but I'm still craving for more. And guess what? I'm here for more!
Warnings: Mentions of Mental Health below the cut.
When you and Walter started dating you were both struggling. He was in the middle of a hard case to solve, and you were finishing your degree.
After his divorce, he never thought he could be deserving of love again, at least, not the pure kind of love you were offering him.
You were both a challenge to each other, but honestly, you were grateful for that. He didn't allow himself to be loved, and you were scared you weren't enough.
So, you reached out for professional help, started researching, reading books when he wasn't home, trying to understand better the place you were both in.
What you didn't know was that Walter himself was also trying to understand you better.
One day you found a book on his nightstand, tucked in between his briefs, on the theme of couples therapy. And the small gestures he has been doing quickly became clear to you on some of the pages you read.
That night you cooked dinner, his favorite meal, and cuddled him while you two watched a movie. Walter wasn't one to express his emotions, he felt like every time he tried to do that he worked himself up and became angry at himself for no reason.
The two of you figured that if your wishes were to spend the rest of your lives together, you might as well work on your barriers for real.
To help Walter express his emotions, every month, after your cycle, he would allow himself to feel anything he might be feeling: sadness, happiness, frustration...
After an entire week of cuddling you, comforting you, it was his time of the month to be pampered.
And it worked for both of you. His week was full of you cuddling him, doing a grocery shopping run for whatever craving he had for dinner, and taking baths together while you massaged his scalp.
And slowly, you started proving to each other that love came in every different way.
