𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 — ceo!nanami x baker!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 — meet cute. nanami has always hated the constricting walls of corporate life. but when he sees you, working at your fathers bakery in his abscence, you steal his heart like a sneaky thief—and he doesn't want it back. "with you by his side, escape seemed possible."
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — 70% of this was written during school. was this inspired by tiana x nanami? noooo (yes). is this mostly just nanami obsessing over you? noooo (yes). was this proof read? not enough times to make me less nervous. i apologize in advance to anyone who actually knows how to bake. happy reading.
the ceo life was daunting—trips overseas, sleep replaced with nights of sifting through contracts, the occasional demotion of a wayward employee. nothing that nanami wasn’t accustomed to, of course. in fact, he was what most people would call a workaholic—married to the money.
but something about today was rubbing him the wrong way. even his usual order of coffee—black as midnight—couldn’t sate the fatigue that liked to claw at him early in the morning. to make matters worse, a new employee spilled a scorching-hot cup of coffee on his favorite tie, which was dark yellow and dotted with black spots.
he didn’t lash out or scream—he never did; he made sure they hadn’t hurt themselves and retreated to his office, where his distraught secretary soon pushed the door open meekly and broke the news that they had lost almost a million in profits because of a miscalculation.
after dismissing his secretary, nanami sank into his work chair, the leather creaking under his weight. he stared absently at the nameplate positioned on his desk. lettered in sparkling gold was “Nanami Kento, CEO.” he had never been proud of his status, but a spark of resentment had begun to quiver inside of him.
the title of CEO was born from the ideals of the working class. little children, young adults—almost everyone, dreamed of becoming CEO, owning a company, unaware that life could exist out of a stable job—like birds born in a cage.
he was a bird aware he was in a cage, who had long ago relinquished any idea of escaping.
in dreams, he often found himself frolicking on a quiet beach, the sun greeting him warmly like an old friend. but then he’d wake up to dim-light and sleek polish and realize he had never really left at all, and he wouldn’t—money was the surest form of stability in a society that treasured it.
before he knew it, he was leaving the office building behind. pulling out of the parking lot in his black rolls royce. he kept only his unadorned hand on the wheel, the gleam of the silver rolex on his wrist leaving a bitter taste on his tongue.
on his off days, he liked to visit a small bakery downtown.
with the money lining his pockets, he could buy an entire franchise if he wanted. yet he would return to that little ramshackle bakery a million times if he could. his tastebuds could discern clearly when his bread was made with love or made for money.
today was no different. as he adjusted his suit collar, pulled at the door handle, and the warm, inviting aroma of something sickeningly sweet wafted in the air, he hoped that the pastries could muffle the little voice in his head that accused him of being a traitor to his desires.
but instead of drawing out the stout old man that usually manned the counters, following the chime of the door bell, you emerged from the door in the back, the sunflower apron tied tightly around your waist dusted with flour. his breath hitched. you were gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous. in his mind he could see wings sprouting from your back; feathers—painted a holy white—glimmered with an enchanting beauty, like your irises when you noticed him standing, stupefied, at the entrance. he understood now why people tossed around the cliché “angel coming down from heaven.” you were proof it was possible.
your face split into a wide smile and you waved him over energetically, but he felt like he was back on that beach in his dreams, sand stuck between his toes, looking at the sun and it was staring back at him.
“you must be nanami, the wealthy regular? my father talks about you a lot!” you chirped, sliding mitts onto your hands to handle the fresh pastries in the oven.
nanami only nodded slowly, still rendered speechless.
“he…fell ill a couple of days ago. so I moved here to take over for him,” you exhaled, gingerly laying the pan on the surface of the baking station.
“I’m sorry,” he finally spoke, voice rough at the edges from disuse and nerves. he suddenly felt self-conscious.
“it’s fine. he’ll get better soon. I know it.”
the way you said those words, laced with raw faith, a soft smile sprouting across your face like a blooming flower, made him wish he could grant wishes—so he would never have to look at you and see himself, dull and utterly hopeless.
“this is gonna take a hot minute,” you grunted, cutting into sourdough before lightly dusting it with flour. “i never anticipated the first customer was going to come this early. if i’m wasting your time, i deeply apologize.”
“not at all,” he responded flatly, tugging aimlessly at his tie to distract himself from the way his heart was fluttering in his chest. he wasn’t in the slightest bit angry. in fact, he was elated. he would get to spend more time with you, would get to listen to your voice, and watch you maneuver the kitchen with your special brand of diligence and care.
silence descended over the both of you; the once barely audible rhythms emanating from a speaker set to a low volume, now filled the cozy bakery. you slid the second batch of sourdough into the oven and leaned over the counter. nanami estimated that the batch already in the oven when he arrived would be done soon, and the realization made his heart squeeze.
“so…uh, what’s your favorite activity?” you asked, rather awkwardly, but in hopes of breaking the ice that had settled between both of you.
favorite activity? nanami scoured the depths of his mind for anything he liked to do, but the only thing in the hollow, bottomless pit was conversations with his thoughts over a heavy drink. for some reason, the idea of telling that to you made his ears turn pink with shame.
“cooking,” he said. it was a partial truth: he cooked when he had nothing better to do, but he rarely took pleasure in it.
“me too!” your eyes twinkled with excitement at the mutual hobby. “I mean that’s a little obvious…but besides cooking and baking, I guess my favorite activities are singing and playing the saxophone.”
he imagined you singing while you cooked, the lyrics of a song falling from your lips like the graceful melody of a songbird. his arms would snake around your waist, and he would press himself against you from behind, placing a trail of tender kisses along your jaw as you blessed him with the sound of your giggles.
immediately, he felt guilty for having the audacity to hop on that train of thought. you were behind the counter, working your fingers to the bone to assist your bedridden father, and he was watching you, only thinking about how soft your lips would feel when brushed against his own. it was selfish, but he couldn’t stop. you were like a drug—only one hit and he already wanted more of you.
“I think the sourdough should be done by now,” you hummed, turning to the oven before halting. he almost lurched forward to figure out what was wrong. “that’s your usual order, right? my father left me a note.”
yes, sourdough was his usual order. but if he told you that, you would hand him the bread and he would have to leave. he didn’t think he could handle being forced away from you so soon. being here with you in this little shop felt like home— tender and warm. in stark contrast, his minimalistic penthouse with its rough edges and sterile lighting was hollow and empty, devoid of color. here, there was color.
self-awareness crashed over him like a tidal wave. god, he sounded like a teenager pleading, “five more minutes,” to a mother waking him up for school. you were already submerged in such a difficult situation. he wouldn’t make it harder for you, and knowing he had lied to you would grind him to dust.
“sourdough bread is my usual,” he said, letting the part of him that wanted to take advantage of the situation fade into background noise.
you wiped your forehead in relief, leaving a faint flour residue. “phew.”
after slicing the warm sourdough bread in half, you shoveled it into a brown paper bag, folding it at the top and holding it out to him over the counter.
“here!” he reached out to grab the bag, deliberately brushing his fingers against yours. your hands were soft yet calloused—proof of your hard work—and it took every last strand of control he had to refrain from taking it. your eyes flicked up at him from beneath your lashes, and his knees nearly wobbled like jelly.
he didn’t know what you were doing to him or how you were doing it, but he would be back first thing tommorow—after he wrote a large check to a certain bakery downtown, of course.
this time, however, he wouldn’t be returning for the bread—no, because you, with your bright smiles and earnest effort, were the key to his cage. the light at the end of the tunnel he’d been ambling with no aim. the sun, with a smile so radiant he was burned just from standing in your vicinity; who stared back at him in his those dreams, where he had been freed from the cage and was able to taste the joy of being able to spread his wings.
with you by his side, escape seemed possible. it wasn’t love at first sight—no, reducing what he felt to that label felt offensive. it was more than that. his soul had latched onto you the second it recognized your being. no word in any dictionary could get near to fully encapsulating it.
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