Remus woke up every morning at 4.30 a.m. sharp.
There was something comforting about the rhythm of it, the quiet hum of the oven as it warmed up, the familiar coolness of the flour-dusted counters, the soft hiss of the espresso machine sparking to life. He’d start the day by rolling out the dough he’d left to proof the night before, shaping it into loaves of bread he never failed to decorate with delicate patterns, flowers and butterflies and intricate shapes. Marlene would tease him sometimes, saying that no one cared how pretty a sandwich slice looked, but he couldn't help it. There was a certain kind of peace in making something beautiful, even if it only lasted until the lunch rush.
And like clockwork, at six sharp, Remus would hear the quiet purr of a car pulling up just outside. He didn’t even need to look. Regulus Black.
Remus would flip the closed sign to open, already setting the coffee order down by the window table closest to the kitchen door. Just the right temperature, because he knew Regulus hated it too hot. That same table had practically become his. Every day for a year now, Regulus came in with one of his well fitted suits, fancy coats and polished shoes, a sight way too unfair for a human at the crack of dawn, and then sat there with his book or his laptop, sipping quietly as he watched Remus bring out the day’s trays one by one. The usual breads. The croissants. The cinnamon rolls. The specialty of the day that always carried some odd twist or strange combination, depending on Remus’ mood.
Regulus noticed it all. The way the patterns on the loaves changed with the seasons. The way Remus’ hands moved, quick, practiced, elegant, dusted with flour and glinting with faint scars from years of hot trays and sharp knives. The way his apron always hugged his waist, tied messily but snug, fabric shifting as he moved. Sometimes, Regulus lingered a little too long watching him, the edge of his coffee cup resting against a smile he never let show. They never talked a lot, the handful of times they would try to it would end up in flustered words and flushed cheeks and awkward silences, Remus running away to the safety of his kitchen to bang his head against the wall while Regulus picked up his stuff and lamented the embarrassment of being one of the best lawyers who somehow managed to mess up a simple sentence when faced with honey colored eyes and brown caramel curls.
They didn't need words though, Remus learnt his tastes, the things he loved and the ones he didn't finish and always watched with his heart in his throat the pleased look on Regulus' face when he had a bite of the latest recipe Remus tried thinking of him, his eyes closing and a small hum that ma'aged to revebrate through his bones in the quiet of the place.
Regulus, who had found the shop by accident one day driving by, made sure to wake up every morning an hour before he needed to get to work just so he could sit down alone with Remus and watch him go about his morning, watching the way he would hum some tune or furrow his brows ever so slightly as he fixed a slightly askew muffin on the display. He also drove by 30 minutes during his lunch break even though the firm had free lunches for all the employees. He knows, because he installed that rule. Always managing to scribble a neat "thank-you" on the napkin whenever he didn't manage to see him before leaving.
Every other Sunday, he’d bring a little girl with him. Luna, his goddaughter, light-footed and sharp-eyed and wearing glittery shoes that tapped against the floor with every step. She’d climb onto the booth seat and immediately demand the “sparkly jam thing” that Remus always managed to have, as if he knew exactly when she was coming.
Remus usually kept to the kitchen more on those days after he would have made them their order, which definetly wasn't his job, but everybody knew that no one else makes a certain black haired man's drinks other than him, and it was not because he didn’t want to talk, but because he’d combust if he stayed too long watching Regulus with her. The soft curve of his smile as he cut her pancakes into moons. The way his voice dropped, gentle and lilting, when he asked, “What’s our verdict today, darling? Toastie or tart?”
That particular Sunday, it was quiet in the café. Rain whispered against the windows, and Luna was coloring with the tiny box of crayons Remus kept just for her, a paper napkin doubling as her canvas. Regulus sat beside her, thumb lazily flipping a page of his book, when Remus stilled in his place behind the counter as Luna, chin resting in her hands, asked Regulus what kind of cake he wanted for his birthday.
"If you could have any flavor and any icing in the whole wide world what would you choose uncle Reggie?" she asked in that cute whisper voice of hers that always managed to make him smile.
Remus stilled, only barely hiding the turn of his head as he eavesdropped. Regulus had smiled faintly, adjusting the little girl in his lap as she tugged on his scarf.
“I’d go with green icing,” he told her. “And lemon, maybe. I like lemon.”
“Green like the forest fairies mom talks about, I love green! Mine would be purple though!” Luna declared. “With pretty flowers.”
Remus smiled softly to himself as he set down two drinks, a hot chocolate and a cappuccino with a swirl of cinnamon, and quietly noted the date on the small calendar stuck to the fridge. So today was Regulus’ birthday.
He didn’t say anything. But that night Remus spent hours in his kitchen after closing, making the cake just the way he knew Regulus would like it the next morning, a hint of thyme in the soft green buuttercream because he didn't like overly sweet things, the layers soft and spongy and every detail Regulus had mentioned to decorate it even if he only got 3 hours of sleep that night.
The next day Regulus showed up as usual, tired, stylishly disheveled, black coat buttoned all the way up despite the spring chill already fading.
His usual coffee was already waiting for him.
But this time, once he’d finished his breakfast, Remus appeared from the kitchen with a box tied in dark green ribbon. He set it gently on the table, his fingers fidgeting with the ties of his apron, a blush rising high on his cheekbones.
Regulus blinked, then raised a brow. “What’s this?”
“Just…” Remus cleared his throat. “Luna said it was your birthday yesterday. You don’t seem like the party type, but.. well, lemon. Green icing. And purple flowers.”
Regulus stared at him for a second too long.
Then he smiled, soft, real, just a little breathless.
“You made me a cake?”
Remus shrugged, suddenly shy. “I just felt like baking.”
Regulus leaned forward, resting his hand over Remus’ flour-dusted fingers. “You do realize you’ve just set the bar for all my future birthdays, don’t you?”
Remus grinned. “Good. I’ve got years to keep raising it.”
