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64 Oslo Square

‘Companion’. Middle English. From Old French ‘compaignon’, literally ‘one who breaks bread with another’.

Strapped for cash, John gets a job at a bakery as their new delivery boy. Juggling school and Queen and work is exhausting, but it’s more than worth it. It’s worth it because of you.

Warnings for this chapter: None!

//

Chapter Four

John was never late. It was part of what endeared him to Roger when they were first introduced. Everyone else just sort of turned up when they happened to, but not John. He was always reliable, a rare quality in students and musicians.

Well, Roger supposed, John had so many commitments, it made sense. He didn’t want to be midway through a show or cycling across town and realise he should be sitting an exam; though Roger was fairly sure Deaky would still write mental checklists and plan his days to the minute even if he had nowhere to be.

It was an admirable quality. Roger knew if it was anyone else, such rigid punctuality might have aggravated him. He was young! He was the drummer in a rock ‘n’ roll band! Life was supposed to be fun. But he liked John, and their new bassist never lectured them when they turned up late, aside from the odd, very cautious jibe. His good timing was for his own benefit and that suited Roger just fine.

It was good for the band too. They needed someone sensible to keep them grounded, and John was the most down-to-earth person Roger had ever met. If he and Freddie were the imagination, then John was the direction, and Brian fell somewhere in-between.

It was Thursday night and the clock in the changing room was ticking towards eight.

Roger surprised everyone (though nobody more than himself) by arriving first.

He’d spent the day sleeping, shattered after a long morning at the market. While Freddie went off to lunch with a few of his college friends, Roger collapsed on the sofa. When he finally awoke hours later, it was dark outside and the sandwich he’d made for himself was still lying on his chest with a single bite taken out of it.

Brian was next to arrive. His long winter coat swung about his spindly legs as he apologised for being late, even though he’d only arrived two minutes after their agreed time.

He’d been teaching today. Roger could tell from the chalk dust on his shirt cuffs and the stacks of paper stuffed into his leather bag, along with miles and miles of guitar cables.

They chatted quietly as they settled into the space, waiting for their bandmates to arrive. They were just laughing at a note one of Brian’s kids had slipped into his pocket (a comment on his substitute teacher’s wild hair) when the changing room door opened again and their frontman swept in.

“Everyone, stop panicking,” Freddie beamed. “I have arrived.”

He never wasted time on ‘hellos’ and ‘good evenings’. They’d all been friends for long enough now that he didn’t see the need.

Freddie dumped his bag down on the nearest flat surface, then shrugged off his enormous fur coat, moaning about the rain all the while.

Perhaps to compensate for being horrendously late, he was already partly dressed in his stage costume, though it wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume that he’d worn black satin trousers to lunch.

Brian watched him with a faint smile.

It never mattered how late Freddie was, or how outrageously he acted when he did, eventually, arrive. It was worth it, just for the fact that he always made the room a little brighter wherever he went. Still, that didn’t mean they were ever going to take it easy on him.

“How gracious of you to bless us with your presence, Fred.”

“Yeah, s’ not often we mere mortals are so privileged,” Roger chimed in.

He peered curiously at the label in Freddie’s fur coat, wondering where he’d got it, until Freddie pulled it away.

“Ha,” He moved away. “Ha,” Hung up his coat. “Ha.” Then turned back to face his friends with his hands planted firmly on his black satin hips.

Further arguments were snuffed out when the door opened again for the fourth and final time. It let in a gust of wind that swept around the room, toying with Brian’s curly hair and sending a shiver over Roger’s skin.

Tonight’s gale was so strong, John had to throw all of his inconsiderable weight against the door to get it closed. When the door finally clicked shut, he almost sank to the floor in relief.

“You’re late.”

John looked up at Roger.

He was staring at him with something akin to curiosity. Roger’s words rang with astonishment rather than ridicule, as if he genuinely couldn’t wrap his head around the thought of John being, as he’d feared, the last to arrive.

Roger couldn’t help smiling when John’s mouth settled into a deep, firm line.

“I know.”

Not wanting to waste any more time, or be the subject of further derision, John swayed to his feet with a sigh, then pressed his palm flat against the nearest wall so that he could kick off his tatty trainers.

He hated being late. New places and people only made the tough roots of his anxiety sink deeper into the earth of his chest, so John always tried to arrive at least half an hour early, wherever he was going. That way, he could get his bearings and attempt to settle his nerves before he was expected to be sociable. Plus, it was just polite.

John thought he’d left the bakery with more than enough time to swing by his digs first but packed trains, bad weather, and even worse luck meant that it took him longer to get home than he’d anticipated.

He must have looked a peculiar sight with his new stage clothes stuffed into a bag from 64 Oslo Square, his long hair wild from the humidity, and his expression as grim as the grave.

Still, he was here now, even if he could still taste copper on his tongue from his frantic run towards their venue for tonight, a small college in Kensington.

Before John could move to get changed, Freddie took him by the shoulders and gently tugged at him until he had turned around.

“Why’re you all covered in..?”

Freddie frowned, holding him at arm’s length so that none of the detritus could spoil his ensemble.

John looked down and realised that he’d taken half the bakery home with him. His clothes were covered in a fine white powder, his dark jeans, his thin red T-shirt, it was even sprinkled in his hair.

God, he thought, as he shook flour from his fringe, how embarrassing. No wonder he got so many funny looks on the District Line.

“It’s from work.”

“They’ve got you baking now, have they? Chef Deacon?” Brian teased.

John only grunted in response.

Freddie kept turning him around until he spotted what looked suspiciously like a handprint at the base of his spine. He met Roger’s gaze then pointed at the mark.

Roger grinned so wide it almost made his cheeks ache.

“Do you have to wear one of those funny hats?” He asked, waving one hand above his golden hair as John broke free of Freddie’s grasp. “A toupee.”

Brian snorted.

“A taupe, Roger.”

“That’s what I said.”

John huffed, batting Freddie’s hands away when he tried to pull at him again.

“Can I get changed now? Is that alright with you lot?”

They were always encouraging him to speak up, so John thought his friends would appreciate him standing up for himself for once. To his dismay, the boys only gave a chorus of ‘ooo’s, and John turned away to get changed, feeling defeated.

He raised his gangly arms above his head and caught hold of the scruff of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one smooth movement. He felt the cold immediately, his pale skin speckling, and John grimaced as he reached for his bag.

“So, you’re enjoying it then? Your new job?”

Brian had been so busy with school, he hadn’t been able to catch up with any of his band mates in quite a while.

Before John could even begin to answer, Roger scoffed.

“Oh, is he ever.” He laughed. “You haven’t heard him? ‘Oh, the bakery is so much fun. Oh, have you seen my new bike? Oh, my new mates are so nice.’”

John just stayed quiet.

He supposed he had been talking about work a lot. A lot for him, anyway. It was just all so exciting. He liked that he got to spend his mornings alone with his thoughts as he cycled through the city. Then he got to spend his afternoons with Mickey and you, learning to bake and making tea for the customers.

Still, he didn’t appreciate the implication that he’d been prattling on about it incessantly, especially from someone as loquacious as Roger, who was always encouraging him to talk more anyway. He certainly didn’t think his clunky attempt at John’s accent was necessary either.

Freddie seemed to be thinking along the same lines. He reached over and flicked his fingers close to Roger’s nose, like he was shooing one of his cats away from his antique furniture.

“Don’t be an arse, Roger,” he said, then smiled at John. “Are they paying you well enough?”

John shot him a grateful look as he pulled on his new shirt. It was bright white and glowed, pearly and clean, under the spotlights, especially against the deep black of his suit. The shirt was made of the softest silk John had ever felt. It was the finest thing he owned by a mile. When he found it in the bargain bin at Granny Takes A Trip on the King’s Road, he could hardly believe his luck.

“They pay me as much as they can,” John said with a quirk of his mouth. “It’s enough.”

He didn’t mean to talk badly about the bakery, he knew they could hardly afford him and John was very grateful that they had risked hiring him. Still, uni would be over soon. He needed a home, food in the cupboards, and maybe, if he was lucky, a rickety old radiator to get him through the winter.

“That’s good,” said Brian. He was twiddling with the tuners of his beloved guitar. “We need some new gear.”

John’s already flagging mood soured. He didn’t like the assumption that what little extra cash he managed to scrounge would go towards the band. For the moment, Queen was just as much a part-time job as 64 Oslo Square.

Thankfully, Roger piped up again before John could say anything that would inevitably lead to an argument.

“Have you asked that girl out yet?”

John was so surprised, it took a moment or two for Roger’s question to process.

Unfortunately, not everyone was as slow on the uptake. The effect was instantaneous.

“There’s a girl?”

Freddie had been in the middle of changing his shoes when Roger brought you up, and was so thrilled by the prospect of romance that he almost tripped over his platforms in his rush to grab John by the shoulders again.

John flushed as pink as Roger’s sparkly trainers as all eyes turned to him, excited and full of questions.

“She’s a woman, actually,” he said, feeling oddly defensive.

He wasn’t sure why that was the first thing to pop into his head but it was too late now.

Freddie was grinning.

“God, I can see her now. Hair all swept back from her forehead. Sleeves rolled up. Apron pulled tight. Ever so enticing and ever so delicious.”

John laughed, his shyness giving way to something else, something new.

As embarrassing as it was to be teased about you, it was exciting too. He wasn’t the chattiest person but John thought he might be able to talk about you for hours.

Images of you swept through his head like a slideshow, snapshot after snapshot of your warm eyes, your inviting, soft body, the look on your face when you were about to tease him, the certainty in your movements as you moved around the kitchen.

“Something like that,” John said quietly.

He had to look down at his shoes to hide his smile.

“Does she call you Johnny?” Roger was grinning too. “I bet she does. ‘Oh, Johnny, your hands are so big, come and knead this dough for me, oh…’”

John thought back to that afternoon, when you had laid your hands over his and together, you rolled out the pastry. The look in your eyes had sent a thrill down his spine. Now he thought about it, your apron strings were always pulled tight, emphasising your waist, pressing into your soft body just as his fingers ached to.

“She’s nice,” John managed to choke out, his mind clouded with thoughts of you backing him up against the kitchen counter. “Kind.”

That made Brian snort.

“Blimey, don’t go on about her.”

“We’re going round next week sometime to get a good look at her,” Roger told Freddie, who seemed delighted by the idea.

Roger shot John a pointed grin.

“I fancy something sweet myself.”

“Oh,” John huffed, slapping Roger’s shoulder with his discarded trousers. “Leave me alone. Pair of-”

The changing room door opened

They looked around to find a woman staring at them, clearly surprised by their appearance.

She seemed to think better of commenting on Freddie’s ensemble and the make-up Brian was prodding around his eyes.

“You’re on in ten minutes. Are you ready?”

/

They were not. Or rather, the band was ready. The boys practiced as often as they could, several times a week, in fact. They rehearsed and rehearsed until they were completely literate in each other’s mannerisms and they had their set list memorised, inside-out and back-to-front.

It was just a shame the kids didn’t like it.

“You had us here at the last bloody minute and now you don’t even want us to play?”

“Listen, you were fine. The kids just want to dance, is all!”

Roger, Brian and Freddie had been arguing with the headmaster for several minutes, and John had been miserable for all of it.

The kids really seemed to enjoy their set. John had felt quite pleased when he saw their smiling faces in the crowd. But after their quick fifteen break, Queen headed back to the stage, only to find that the kids had requested to keep the disco for the rest of the night.

The headmaster had the unlucky job of breaking the bad news. He’d been very apologetic at first but Roger was so outraged by the whole thing, he’d been arguing with Mr. Galbridger all the way back to the changing rooms and his patience was clearly wearing thin.

“You’ll get your money, alright? What’re you so upset about?”

“I’m not upset, you-” Roger huffed as he shoved his drumsticks into his bag. “It’s the principle of the thing!”

“He’s the principle,” Freddie put in, which no one was in the mood to find funny.

“It’s fine,” Brian said, trying to placate his bristling friend and get their money. “Just give us what we’re owed and we’ll get on our way.”

The headmaster grumbled under his breath but acquiesced. He slipped his hand into his suit pocket and brought out a thick leather wallet.

As the rest of the boys packed up their things, Brian held out his hand while the headmaster placed note after note in his palm. He was quick to count the money.

“Hang on,” Brian shook his head. “There’s only £5 here.”

The headmaster cleared his throat uncomfortably as four angry faces turned to him.

“You’ll be taking half, of course.”

Roger was aghast.

“We’ll be what?”

“Well, you only played half a show.”

“Only because you stopped us! We agreed 10.”

“You're lucky to be getting that,” The headmaster wrinkled his nose. “If I knew your stuff was going to be so… Odd…”

Freddie raised a delicate eyebrow.

“Well, that’s not very nice at all.”

Roger was fuming. John could practically see the steam pouring from his ears.

“You're bloody right, it’s not!”

The headmaster’s practiced professionalism finally snapped.

“Listen here, you little sod,” He slapped another note in Brian’s hand, then jabbed a finger towards Roger. “Take six and get out. There’s no need to be a twat about it.”

At that, Freddie and Brian reared up, and John started packing his equipment away faster, sensing the need for a quick escape.

“Oi,” Brian said, bringing himself to his full height. “Roger may be a twat but he’s my twat.”

“He’s our twat,” Freddie chimed in.

Behind them, John put his head in his hands.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Just give us what you owe us, you tight old git!”

The headmaster, clearly tired of arguing, shoved a few more notes in their direction, then showed them the door.

Outside, the cold air was quick to settle their tempers. Money split evenly between them and safely stored away, they decided to call it a night.

Roger swirled his keys around his index finger.

“Alright then, you ‘orrible lot. Car’s round the corner. Who wants a lift?”

“Only if you’ve remembered your glasses,” Brian grunted, raising his hand.

“Thanks, I think I’ll walk,” John said.

“You sure?” Freddie hefted his heavy fur coat further up onto his shoulders, wrapping it tight around his waist to save himself from the cold. “It’s a long walk back. Do you even know the way?”

Annoyance made John’s body tense and he had to fight the urge to frown. They were always trying to look after him. It was getting rather tiresome. But he couldn’t worry that they didn’t like him one minute and be frustrated by how much they cared the next, so John just kept his mouth shut, as usual.

“I’ll be alright,” he said instead. “I know this part of town like the back of my hand now.”

“Ohh, that bloody bike,” Freddie grinned. “We’re definitely coming round next week, aren’t we Rog? I wanna see those skinny legs pedalling away.”

John elected not to say anything, apart from ‘goodnight’ and ‘see you in the week’.

The thought of Roger and Freddie camping out in the bakery all day, poking fun at him and trying to catch a glimpse of you, made his stomach lurch.

They were only being friendly. John knew they only teased him because they cared and because they were genuinely interested in his new job.

Secretly, John was quite pleased that they were curious. He liked the boys a lot, he wanted them to like him too, so it was nice that they were interested in his life.

But then again, what if they said something in front of you, something that made you go back to just calling him ‘new boy’. Or worse, what if you took one look at Roger and…

John tripped over an uneven paving slab and swore under his breath. He nearly buckled under the weight of his bass on his back but managed to grab onto a nearby lamppost before he met the ground.

Some lads across the road jeered at him, whistling and hollering as John righted himself. They thought he was drunk. Embarrassed, John hurried on by, keeping his eyes down.

He turned a corner and found himself on a road he knew well. The shops were all dark, their shutters pulled down and their customers all gone. The air still smelt of perfumes and incense, of exotic foods and car exhausts. Beneath it all, John caught the oh-so familiar scent of cinnamon, vanilla, and custard.

He smiled to himself.

He knew, realistically, that it was the shop that always smelt so wonderful, but John would be kidding himself if he didn’t associate the scents of baking, of warmth and good food, with you.

He turned his head the other way, down the high street towards Hyde Park. 64 Olso Square peered back at him from the last corner. Like the other shops, the lights were all off inside, apart from the one in the flat above. A figure passed behind the closed curtains, the only sign of life.

It was late, the bakery would have been closed for a few hours now. You would definitely be finished packing up. In fact, you’d probably be halfway home now. Unless… Well, he could always check.

Adjusting his bass, John figured it would probably be a little much to drop by now.

What would he even say? That he was passing by and thought he might pop in and see how you were? That it had only been a couple of hours since he last saw you but he missed you, that he’d thought about you all night, even when he was playing. That he liked the way you said his name and the feeling he got in his chest when you smiled at him?

John grimaced, embarrassed by his own eagerness.

He did miss you. It was a feeling he wasn’t entirely used to, but even though John was more than a little alarmed by the ache he felt in his chest when he thought about you, he couldn’t wait to see you again tomorrow.

/

Alone in your room, you settled by the window with your last cup of tea of the day. The book propped up on your knees was almost enough to distract your thoughts from the boy with the green-grey eyes.

Almost.

If you’d looked up, right then, and peered down at the street below, you would’ve seen him making his way back to his own tiny, quiet room, kept company by thoughts of you.

/

The bakery has been open for ten minutes, and you’d been stressed for nine of them.

The Friday morning rush was no less intense than any other day. In fact, the grey sky seemed to have made people want to treat themselves, and the drizzly weather had driven them towards 64 Oslo Square’s open doors.

Thankfully, you and Mickey weren’t alone today. Gladys had deigned to grace you with her company for the first time all week.

As annoyed as you were with her for leaving you on your own so often, you had to admit it was rather comforting to hear Gladys’ mad plastic jewellery clinking as she bustled about behind the counter, fetching cups of tea and chatting with the customers.

You could smell her sweet perfume from the kitchen. It cut through the scents of flaky pastry and vanilla essence, making your nose wrinkle as you flitted between the ovens and the counters, like a hummingbird between flowers. Still, it was good to have Gladys back where she belonged.

Mickey seemed relieved too. With your boss behind the counter, it meant you didn’t have to split your time and could actually do what you were paid to do.

Together, you created Victoria Sponges, lemon drizzles, Chelsea Buns, Bakewell Tarts, and enough Viennese Slices to feed an army.

As the morning wore on, you fell into a rhythm. You and Mickey moved around the kitchen like bees in a hive, a rehearsed dance that meant you could often communicate without words.

It felt good to be productive, to do what you were actually hired to do. You’d loved baking ever since you were a child, and even though it was stressful, and always boiling hot in the tiny kitchen, it felt natural to you.

As you swept a wooden spoon around a large bowl of sponge mixture, you realised you’d even missed the ache in your upper arm and the way Mickey shouted to you across the room.

The only problem was, you hadn’t been able to say good morning to John.

You caught a glance of him when you restocked the counter around ten. All the tables and chairs that usually sat outside had been brought in to keep them and the customers out of the rain, so John was sat in the very corner by the window, looking out at the grey sky as he sipped a steaming mug of tea.

You stopped dead when you saw him, which was a bit embarrassing. Gladys definitely noticed. Hell, the man she was serving must have noticed how you came to an abrupt halt, halfway through a sentence.

You were just so surprised to see him, you couldn’t help it. John usually came into the kitchen to say good morning when he arrived. Gladys must have intercepted him and warned him that you and Mickey were rushed off your feet.

Disappointment sank like a cold stone in your chest. You’d been looking forward to seeing John all day. In fact, the prospect of getting to talk to him had kept you going through your hectic morning.

You kept stealing glances at him as you refilled the counter trays, hoping and hoping that he’d look over at you and smile, but John seemed lost in thought as he twirled a biro between his long fingers.

When you were done, you hovered in the kitchen doorway, one last ditch attempt at catching his eye. In the end, the only attention you managed to capture was that of the young woman next in the queue. She pulled a sympathetic face at you as you undraped yourself from the doorway, and you headed back into the kitchen, defeated.

Your humiliation didn’t last long.

When there was finally a lull in customers, Gladys bustled into the kitchen, talking a million miles an hour about absolutely nothing. You’d never met someone who could talk so much without saying anything. Still, it made you smile. It was good to have her back.

That was until Gladys sidled up beside you, knocking her hip into yours while you were trying to roll out pastry.

“Oi,” she whispered, a little too close to your ear.

You pulled a face, drawing up your shoulder to stop her tickling you again.

“Oi?”

“Go say ‘hi’ to John.”

You had to force yourself not to smile at the sound of his name. Putting down your rolling pin, you faked an exasperated sigh.

“Can’t you see the poor boy’s tryin’ to work?”

“Doesn’t look like it. He’s been starin’ out the window all mornin’. He looks a bi’ moony to me.” Gladys wagged a finger like a detective concluding her findings. “Maybe he’s got girlfriend trouble.”

That wiped the smile from your face.

John hadn’t mentioned a girlfriend. Then again, some boys were like that, keeping relationships quiet in front of potential better offers. John didn’t seem the type but the thought still made your chest pang.

Just because he hadn’t mentioned dating anyone didn’t mean that he wasn’t. John rarely offered up anything about himself. In fact, he didn’t talk very much at all. You never gave him the chance. Maybe Mickey was right, perhaps you should leave him alone.

“‘e’s probably just puzzlin’ over somethin’. You know those universi’y types,” You waved your hand by your head. “Always away with the fairies.”

You were trying to convince yourself just as much as you were Gladys. In your chest, you shut the drawer full of feelings for John with a grim ‘thunk’.

“e’s shy,” Gladys wore an almost motherly pout. “e’s barely said a word to me since he started here. Ah ah! Shut it.”

You closed your mouth, smiling. Your pointed remark about Gladys’ absence vanished on your tongue.

“There’s nothin’ wrong with shy, Glad.”

“I know but we’re a family, ‘ent we? I wan’ ‘im to feel welcome. Poor bless needs someone to be nice to ‘im. He’s sa’ out there all on his own.”

“He’s revising, Glad.” You laughed. “And we’re quite good mates, actually. You’re just never around to see it.”

“Oh…” Gladys dug her sharp elbow into your ribs. “Shut it, will you?”

You made a show of grabbing your side in pain, grinning from ear to ear.

“That your guil’y conscience talking, Glad?”

“Since when did you have such an ant’s nest up your arse? I’m here now, aren’t I?”

You rubbed your side again.

“And how lovely it is to see you.”

Gladys scoffed and flapped her hands at you, but you could tell you’d almost pushed things too far.

There was an unspoken line, rarely crossed. Gladys was a good boss despite her absences, and wasn’t half as daft as she looked. Behind the big hair and bright clothes was a good brain for business and a steely determination. Gladys was tough, she’d been through a lot, and she’d given you your whole life.

After twenty years, she’d earned respect from you, from Mickey, from the customers that knew her by name. You could tease her, talk back, and you had a big role and voice in the business, but there was always that line.

You squeezed Gladys’ shoulder, a silent apology, but true to character, she just brushed you off. You were forgiven.

You thought she might leave you alone after that. The bakery had its lulls but no one could leave the shopfront alone for more than a few minutes. It was a rule Gladys had for security reasons but you were also, fortunately, never short of customers.

Gladys made a show of peering round the kitchen doorway, then nodded her head towards where John was sitting.

“And?”

It didn’t take long for you to grasp what she was getting at. Subtlety wasn’t something Gladys was known for.

You glanced that way too, then grinned.

“Very nice.”

Gladys rolled her eyes.

“Oh, gawd. You do make my teeth itch, you know.”

She went back to stand behind the counter, pointing one bony finger at you before she disappeared from sight.

“Don’t break him.”

Turning back to the pastry you’d been rolling out, you smiled to yourself. The drawer in your chest opened again, just a little.

Now there was a thought.

In all honesty, you weren’t sure what to make of John. He was sweet, clever, and so gorgeous, it made you all stupid and fluttery whenever he met your gaze.

You liked that he was always early, and that he genuinely seemed interested in your work and listened when you talked. Most of all, you loved his funny little mouth and the clever spark in his eyes, and the way his face scrunched up when he was thinking.

In the few weeks since you met, you’d found that getting to know John was like squeezing blood from a stone. But you kept trying, because although he was reserved, John always seemed to want to stand close to you. He often had this look on his face like he wanted to say something but couldn’t work up the courage.

Yes, you would keep trying.

Across the kitchen, Mickey was warbling along to the radio.

You’d had a productive morning together. Perhaps you could allow yourself a small break.

All the tables inside the bakery were taken, filling the room with the low hum of chatter. The smell of coffee hung heavy in the air, the lights low and warm. You let your fingers graze across the counter as you moved behind it. You really loved this little shop.

You could feel Gladys’ eyes on your back as you made your way over to the corner where John was sitting.

He didn’t look up as you approached. John’s gaze was fixed firmly on the rain pouring outside, his nose pressed so close to the window, he was sure to feel the cold seeping in. His chin was propped up on the heel of his palm and he was completely still, no tapping fingers, no bouncing leg.

He was so deep in thought, John didn’t notice you were there until you wrapped your hands around the back of the scarlet chair opposite his. He started, making his elbow slip off the table. He scrambled to sit upright, apologising softly.

You felt terrible for making him jump but you couldn’t help smiling. He really was very sweet.

“Mornin’, new boy.”

John recovered quickly. He smiled up at you.

“Morning, Captain.”

It wasn’t a proper smile. It seemed artificial, as if he’d taught himself how to do it, a mask he could slip on for social situations.

You’d seen his real smile, the one that showed off the little gap in his teeth and made his eyes wrinkle until he seemed to almost squint at you. This was practiced politeness.

You felt your excitement deflate just a little. Perhaps you really did bother him.

Your waning confidence caught your tongue for a moment but you recovered just as quickly as he had.

“How’s school?”

“Good, how’s things here?”

With an easy grin, you found your footing again.

“Better now.”

At last, there it was. John huffed a little laugh and bashfully looked down at the table. As he shook his head, his pretty hair moved about his shoulders, and when he looked up at you again, his smile finally reached his eyes.

You felt your body relax. He really did have a lovely smile. It bunched up his cheeks, softening the sharper angles of his face.

It had taken a while but John did seem a little more relaxed at work this than he used to be. The average person might not have been able to tell the difference, but you had been watching him with curiosity from day one and had been quietly monitoring his progress.

He still only spoke when spoken to and held himself so rigidly, you’d think someone was pulling his strings too tight, but John was smilier now and his personality was beginning to eke through. The bakery’s routine seemed to help, and it was hard not to fall in love with the place and its people.

He seemed most at ease around Mickey, which was to be expected. The boys were bound to gravitate towards each other, they both liked football and cars, but Mickey also seemed to be a comforting figure. He may have been built like a brick outhouse but he was sweet and gentle, and you often found him and John chatting quietly by the back door of the kitchen, sharing stories and slices of fresh buttered bread.

You couldn’t help noticing he wasn’t quite so relaxed around you, something you were determined to change.

John opened his mouth to speak but words seemed to fail him. There was that face again, like he wanted to tell you something but couldn’t quite get there.

John looked pained for a moment, and you weren’t sure whether to give him time or to try and help him. Before you could make up your mind, he seemed to change tack, and asked,

“Are you at..?”

John gestured to the book lying open in front of him.

The pages were full of calculations, shapes and squiggles that wouldn’t have meant anything to you even if the textbook had been facing the right way up.

“Ohh, I’ve got this place to look after, dun’ I.” You smiled and shook your head. “Too busy for all that.”

You watched, perhaps too closely, as John’s mouth twisted apologetically.

“Gladys isn’t around much, is she.”

“Oh, well, you know,” You matched his wry smile. “She’s allowed some fun.”

John nodded, half-heartedly agreeing with you.

The bakery was quiet. After lunch, there was always a lull, and it would only be the odd customer until the next rush in a few hours.

Sensing you hadn’t yet outstayed your welcome, you pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.

Keeping your eyes on John, you carefully placed your feet so that they wouldn’t accidentally bump against his. He was still so nervous, you could practically feel his muscles aching from how tense he was.

As you settled down, you noticed him straighten up so that he wouldn’t be leaning towards you over the table. He was so tightly wound, you thought if your knee accidentally bumped his, he might jump as if electrocuted.

To your delight, John closed his book. You had his full attention.

“So, how long have you worked here?”

“Three years. It was supposed to be something part-time while I figured out what I was gonna do.”

“I better be careful then.”

John tucked his feet behind his chair legs, keeping out of your way. He could feel your warmth even from here. It was deliciously distracting.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Mm, or you’ll be stuck here too, you mean?”

“No!” John shook his head. “I was only-”

“I know, John. It’s alright.”

You raised your arm, realising too late that he might not be comfortable with you placing your hand over his as you had planned.

You faltered, your hand freezing in mid-air for a moment before you pulled back. Embarrassed, you tucked some of the hair that had escaped your ponytail behind your ear, as if that had been your intention the whole time.

Very smooth.

“But, yeah, you should be careful,” You went on, shuffling awkwardly in your seat. “Gladys loves you. You’ll be helping us in the kitchen before too long.”

John shrugged, smiling as he sipped his tea.

“Doesn’t sound too bad to me.”

“How’re your focaccia skills?”

“My what?”

You laughed.

Pleasantly bewildered, John sipped his tea again.

You contemplated fetching your own cup but you were far too comfortable. The bakery’s chairs were squashy and wide, almost like small armchairs. It was always difficult to drag yourself out of them, especially when the weather outside was so dismal, which is exactly why Gladys bought them.

You glanced over at the counter. There were still no customers but Gladys was bustling around, making herself look busy by fiddling with the coffee machine and snapping the pastry tongs together. If you got up, she’d most likely try and rope you into cleaning too.

No, better to stay put. Tea would be lovely but here you could rest your aching feet, you could try and winkle more information out of John, and perhaps most importantly, you could get out of work for a couple of minutes.

In any case, if you did get up, you might accidentally bump into John, and you were sure that would make him fall right out of his chair.

“What did you say you were studyin’ again?”

“Electrical engineering.”

You had to laugh. The poor boy. He had no idea what he was getting himself in for when he walked in off the street.

“Don’t let Glad hear you. You’ll be up a ladder in a heartbeat. This place is so ancient, we’re all held together with sticky tape and hope. I’m sure we’ll find lots to keep you busy if you’re not too careful.”

John snorted.

“As if I don’t have enough on.”

He gave you a little smile to make sure you knew he was only kidding.

You tried not to look too thrilled.

“Busy with the band? That’s good, isn’t it? You must be doing alright.”

John’s expression grew serious again.

“Mm.”

His thin lips twitched, and you cursed yourself for broaching what was clearly a sore topic.

John didn’t talk much about his band. You knew their name was Queen and that it was a bunch of boys who were either finishing uni, like John, or had already graduated. They seemed to cause him all sorts of worry. Perhaps you shouldn’t have laughed when John griped about having a lot on his plate right now.

You desperately wanted to see him perform. The thought was certainly intriguing. You thought John might finally look in his element. The bass was the steady heartbeat of any band and that seemed to suit him perfectly. You could only imagine how his long, nimble fingers looked tugging at those thick strings.

Under the table, you crossed your legs.

“I can just see you bopping about onstage,” You said, smiling. “Not in the spotlight but having the most fun.”

John snorted.

“I don’t know about that, you haven’t met Freddie.”

“Is he your drummer?”

“The singer. Roger’s the drummer. They’re all a bit mad, really.”

He looked down at the table. The empty cup he’d been spinning between his hands was finally still.

You wondered if John had given away more than he’d intended.

It was something you saw in him often. He so rarely gave out his opinion, only speaking when he felt it was necessary, a nice change from the other men in your life. Sometimes he seemed to forget himself. He would visibly relax, his slim shoulders lowering, his clever grey-green eyes softening. It was lovely to see, and although you couldn’t be sure, you hoped it was because of you.

But then John would say something that seemed to make his own heart trip, or you’d ask a question that made him clam up again.

It had gotten better. After all the time John had spent with you, and Mickey and Gladys, he’d relaxed considerably. That didn’t mean his little quiet moments and pregnant pauses no longer made you falter, but you were getting used to them, just as, you supposed, John was getting used to you.

You waited, patiently and quietly, for John to raise his head again. It was agony, but when he did finally look up, that honest, open softness in his eyes had returned, and it almost took your breath away.

“You should come and see us sometime,” he said, then nodded once or twice, sure of his invitation.

You felt your heart flutter in your chest.

“I’m not sure if Mickey will be up for any gigs at the moment.”

You had only heard the news last week. Mickey’s wife, Rita, was pregnant. She was only a few months along but Mickey was already fussing and planning, and would be unavailable for nights out for the foreseeable future.

John shrugged.

“Well, that’s alright. I wasn’t inviting him.”

Stunned, you blinked at him.

His confidence retreated a little.

“I mean, he’s welcome to come if he likes but I wanted to ask- You, I was asking you. I want you to come.” John blushed. “To the show,” he added quickly.

It was like someone had lit a box of fireworks in your chest. You tried to keep your face straight but you could feel your cheeks aching from the width of your smile.

“I’d love that. I’d really love that.”

John smiled bashfully, then looked down at the table again.

You watched him spin his empty mug around his hands against for a second, then asked,

“Do you play any ABBA?”

John laughed, long and loud, and didn’t seem embarrassed about it.

You beamed, thrilled and endeared and oh, so infatuated.

The spell was broken when the front door opened behind you, letting in a customer and a gust of frigid air. The cold shot down the back of your shirt, sending goosebumps across your skin and making you shudder. That was your cue.

You stood and placed your fingertips on the page open in front of John. You could feel the weight of his gaze as you turned the book around to face you. Your eyes flicked over the numbers, letters and symbols for all of three seconds before you gave in with a laugh.

Gladys was seeing to the man at the counter, so you had time to ask,

“Can I get you something to eat? Another drink?”

John’s smile was knowing but gentle.

“You’re determined aren’t you.”

“I worry about you! All that cycling.” You nodded towards the counter. “And you know what they say, you can’t trust a skinny baker. You’re bad for business, new boy.”

John looked unconvinced.

“You’re just trying to fatten me up.”

You didn’t mean to, it shouldn’t have made you stall, but you flinched slightly. You just hadn’t been expecting that word - especially from John, someone you were starting to really like - and what would usually have glanced off you slipped through the plates of your armour.

“Oi, where are my meringues?”

You felt Mickey looming over you before you turned to face him.

“The whisk overheated again!” You gently pushed his broad chest. He didn’t move an inch. “I’m waiting for it to cool down so I can start!”

“My nan says ‘‘tis a bad workman what blames his tools’,” Mickey grumbled.

“Your nan’s from Spitalfields, no she bloody doesn’t.”

“I could take a look at it for you?” John piped up. “If you like?”

You and Mickey shared a look.

It was very sweet of John to offer but all your kitchen equipment was older than you cared to think about. If someone started meddling with it all, it could only spell disaster.

“Oh, I think it’s well past help.” You smiled. “Thanks anyway, new boy.”

You thought you had let him down gently but John sank back in his chair as if scolded. He looked almost wounded, and it was only then that you realised he was trying to make up for what had just happened between you.

Huffily, Mickey went back into the kitchen, his mind on his meringues.

As soon as he was out of sight, John reached out and brushed the very tips of his index and middle fingers against your wrist.

You told yourself it was just to get your attention but you couldn’t ignore the electricity that shot up your arm, or how with just the smallest of touches, John had drawn you closer to him. His skin was cold, you could still feel him against your wrist.

It was the first time he’d touched you.

“I didn’t mean to- I hope I didn’t…”

He was trying to apologise without even being sure that he’d done anything wrong. You wanted to smile and tease him about it but John’s worried expression garnered pity in you.

Heart pounding, you squeezed his narrow shoulder. For once, he didn’t tense up.

“I’ll find you something to eat,” you said.

Realising you weren’t upset with him, John grinned, and you saw his confidence grow before your eyes again.

“You’re so bossy.”

You weren’t sure why you said it, perhaps you were still on a high from John touching you, tiny as it was, but you were so pleased, your mouth decided to speak without consulting your head first.

“And you bend over for me so easily.”

John’s usually impassive expression slipped. His eyes widened, his mouth falling open for just a second before he caught himself.

Dignity in tatters, you decided to make a quick exit. Your face hot with embarrassment, you wrapped your fingers around his empty mug and lifted it from his hands.

“I’ll get you that tea.”

You turned away before he had a chance to say anything, so you missed John looking down to hide his own burning cheeks.

When you came back a few minutes later, with a cuppa and two hot cross buns in your hands, John appeared to have recovered. That made one of you.

To your delight, he pushed your chair out from under the table with the toe of his battered trainer, inviting you to sit down.

“Gladys was telling me about her date,” John said, once you were seated again.

You rolled your eyes.

“Mm, me too. And Mickey. And the milkman this morning. Half the bloody market’s heard.”

“She was very excited.” John glanced in Glady’s direction. “You don’t think much of him?”

“I try not to think about him at all.”

You pulled a face. Alastair was a sore topic, but you’d push through if it meant getting to talk to John more.

“If he makes her happy then that’s nice but I don’t have to like him. She’s not my mum, much as she likes to think so, and he’s not mine and Mickey’s new step-dad. Just wish she didn’t spend so much time away from the bakery.”

“It seems to be doing alright.” John picked at his hot cross bun thoughtfully. “Maybe you should take over.”

That surprised you.

“Run the bakery?”

John nodded. He slipped his long fingers around his mug of tea and you forced yourself to keep your eyes up.

“Isn’t that what you said yesterday? Or Mickey? That one day you wanted to run the bakery?”

Quiet but observant, you had been right about this boy from the start.

“It’s the dream. Gladys doesn’t have any kids so she’s always said one day, this place is mine.”

You paused.

Something about John made it very easy to talk to him, even though you weren’t always guaranteed to get a lot back. He had an open, friendly face (and the prettiest eyes you’d ever seen). You knew you could trust him. You knew he was safe.

“I love it so much, John. And I have so many ideas, I know I can keep us afloat.”

Times changed. Someday, the bakery would be gone, replaced by disgustingly overpriced flats or a chain restaurant. If 64 Oslo Square did manage to survive, in fifty years time, it would be some little oddity on the corner of the street, a relic.

But you had plans, you had ideas, and you had love for this place. All the bakery needed was someone who cared.

You knew John probably didn’t, which was understandable. This was just a job for him. You were surprised he was even listening, but you had never spoken the words out loud before. It felt good. Right.

“Just gotta wait and see what happens, I suppose.” You laughed, hoping to dispel some of the tension from your tone. “My life is in the hands of a batty old lady.”

John’s gaze softened.

“I think you’d be brilliant.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

The sincerity of his tone, his earnest gaze, you knew John wasn’t just being kind. For whatever reason, he really believed in you.

Despite every rational thought telling you to slow down, to not get ahead of yourself, you could feel the final tumblers of your heart clicking into place.

You sipped your coffee, giving yourself a chance to collect yourself. John was still smiling at you and it was inconveniently diverting.

“Ah, but all my free time would go out the window,” You smirked. “My sparklin’ social life would definitely suffer.”

“How’s that book coming along?”

“Fine, thanks. Almost finished.”

“What is it now?”

“The Great Gatsby.”

“Enjoying it?”

“God, no. Rich people and their problems. Couldn’t care less, honestly.”

John laughed softly, then set about halving and buttering his hot cross bun.

“I really do think you’d be good. You practically run the place already, don’t you?”

When you rolled your eyes, John grew more insistent.

“Oh, come on. You know how everything works, you bake, you handle the money, the customers know you… You might not be the boss but everyone does what you tell them.” He pointed at you with his knife. “You’re in charge here, Captain.”

A slow smile slipped across your face.

“What about you?” The words left your mouth before you could stop them. “Are you mine to command too?”

Your tone was playful but your eyes were steady and still, holding him in place. To your delight, John held your gaze. That was new. He really did have such lovely eyes, so clear and clever, and completely unreadable.

John was the first to look away but only when he lowered his head to take a bite out of his hot cross bun.

“I think that’s fairly obvious,” he said quietly.

You just stared. What else could you do? John hadn’t just pulled the drawer open again, he’d yanked it so hard, all its contents had gone sprawling across the floor, and suddenly the urge to climb into his lap and kiss him senseless was overwhelming.

Instead, you bit back a pleased smile and asked,

“You finished for today?”

John looked down at his open textbook. He hadn’t got very far at all. The bakery, its smells and sounds, you, were all far too distracting.

You nodded your head towards the kitchen.

“You want another lesson?”

John beamed.

Though most of the food, such as the bread, croissants and other pastries, were baked early in the morning, ready for when the doors opened at eight, the kitchens were busy throughout the day. This meant you didn’t get a lot of downtime, apart from when you were waiting for things to finish baking. Like right now.

You lead John through the kitchens he was slowly becoming well-acquainted with, until you were both wrapped up in warm smells and the comforting heat of the ovens.

“You can try anythin’ you like. But maybe keep away from the bread slicer. Hard to play the bass without…”

You wiggled your fingers and John laughed.

As if on cue, one of the ancient ovens chirped for attention like a baby bird, and you hurried over to switch off the timer.

You could feel John’s eyes on your back as you carefully reached inside the oven and pulled out a series of round sponge cakes. Placing them on the cooling rack, you shook off your thick oven gloves and peered closer to inspect them.

“I was a bit worried about these when they went in,” You explained. “But they’ve risen well. We had big problems when we first started makin’ the Victoria Sponge. They were comin’ out so huge, we couldn’t fit the covers over them. Mickey wasn’t allowed to decorate them so you can only imagine the whining.”

“They look great.”

John leaned in close to inspect them, copying you, even though he had no idea what he was supposed to be look for.

“My mum makes Victoria Sponge all the time. I always had one for my birthday.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“19th August.”

“Mm,” You smiled. “We’re a li’le early but I’ll sing for you anyway if you like.”

“No thanks, I’ve heard your singing.”

You gasped and dug your elbow into his ribs.

“Cheeky git.”

Rubbing his side, smiling, John asked,

“Can I help?”

“It’s not the most excitin’ thing to make. All that’s left to do is the jam and the buttercream.”

“That’s pretty much my skill level, I’d say,” John said, then laughed.

The sound made your heart lift in your chest. How could you say no?

You found John a nice place to stand where he would have enough room to decorate but he wouldn’t be in anyone’s way, then found him the right ingredients. It was a very simple recipe but you were still slightly apprehensive as you watched him turn the jars over in his hands.

“Did you help your mum bake?”

John nodded faintly. As he rolled up the sleeves of his thin red jumper, his eyes seemed glazed, as if lost in memory.

“Sometimes. She would always shoo me and my sister away after a while, when we started making a mess.”

You had never heard him talk about his family before. You couldn't help wondering what they were like, what his sister’s name was, what his father did for a living, where he had grown up, but although you itched to press John further, you held back.

Another time. Right now, John just wanted to learn and be distracted from his classes, and you were going to help him as best you could.

“Like I said, it’s a very easy recipe. You just have to mix butter, icing sugar, and maybe a bit of milk. You wanna start weighing out the sugar? And then we sieve it into this bowl, here.”

John was not a natural baker. Although measurements and recipes appealed to his nature, he was also prone to getting boyishly messy in a way that was almost painfully endearing.

When you teased him about it, he ducked and hid his pink cheeks behind his long hair. He was already covered in icing sugar and he’d only been sieving for a few moments.

You went to grab him an apron. Before you handed it to him, John pulled off his thin jumper to reveal an equally threadbare yellow shirt. You wondered if all his clothes were like this, worn until they were falling to pieces, and whether John was economic, sentimental, or a mix of the two.

To your great delight, instead of taking the apron from you, John bowed down so that you could slip it over his head, just as you had a few weeks ago.

Trying not to look too pleased with yourself, as Mickey was sat reading the newspaper not too far away, you looped the apron over John’s head. Your hand instinctively fell to his waist, pressing in with just enough pressure that he knew to turn around.

You hardly breathed as you stepped closer and reached around his waist to grab the strings hanging by his hips.

Your gaze was heavy as led, too heavy for you to resist dragging your eyes down his spine, to the small of his back, then finally to his backside.

Guilt made your face burn as you dragged your eyes up again and you quickly finished tying him up.

Tying up his apron.

Jesus Christ.

You managed to give him a quick walk-through of the instructions before you were called back to the front of the shop.

When you returned, John had made surprising progress. He was sat down now - Mickey must have offered up his stool while he went to see to his croissants - and leaning very close to the cake.

John’s lips were parted. You could see his tongue pressing against the gap in his teeth as he concentrated.

“Oh, that’s lovely, John.”

He looked up at you, smiling sheepishly.

“It’s a little wonky.”

Your chest warmed.

The cake was a little lopsided. John had slathered a good wedge of buttercream over the base of the sponge, just as instructed, but perhaps with more exuberance than necessary, then a layer of fresh strawberry jam.

“Not bad for your first try.”

You handed him the icing sugar and a sieve, and showed him how to pat his hand against its side.

His clever eyes fixed intently on the cake, John showered icing sugar over his creation, then sat back to admire his work.

“It doesn’t look too bad does it,” he said, his chest puffed out with pride.

John looked up at you again, and you laughed when you saw he had a dab of jam at the corner of his mouth.

“It’s nice isn’t it,” You tapped your own mouth. “The lady who makes it only lives round the corner.”

You grinned when John wryly brushed at his lips, caught red-mouthed.

“Quality control,” he mumbled, embarrassed.

You just laughed.

“She says she wanders into her garden and just picks whatever’s ripe, and makes jam from it. How lovely is that?“

“Do you have a garden?”

“I wish. Maybe one day, hey? What about you, what are your digs like?”

John pulled a face.

“Not exactly a palace?”

“Why do you think I like it here so much?”

“The sparklin’ company,” You grinned. “And the lessons. Let’s see, so that's cinnamon whirls and now Victoria Sponge. What do you want to learn next?”

“You know, when I started here, I didn’t expect to get a free crash course.”

“You’re right, I should be chargin’ you.”

John laughed at that, smiling so wide that his eyes squeezed shut. It was so painfully adorable you almost stopped breathing.

Today was lovely. Getting to know John a little more, spending time with him, hearing his lovely voice and seeing his lovely eyes light up whenever he looked at you.

But that nagging feeling, of being a bother, of forcing John into conversations and situations that he wasn’t comfortable with, it had yet to leave you. He didn’t seem unhappy. In fact, John was still smiling to himself as he happily hooked more jam out of the jar.

“Mickey told me to stop bothering you,” you said, unable to help yourself.

John looked at you for a moment, his index finger still in his mouth. It was more than a little distracting, especially when he pulled it back again to speak with a slight ‘pop’.

“You don’t bother me?”

“I mean,” You sighed, wishing you hadn't said anything. “He told me to stop trying to get you to talk.”

To your relief, John only smiled.

“I didn’t realise that’s what you were doing.”

“Ah, well, I’m very sneaky.”

You leaned your hip against the worktop and folded your arms, trying to appear more relaxed than you felt.

“Sorry if I’ve ever been too much.”

John firmly shook his head.

“You haven’t. You’re lovely. I just don’t always feel like talking.”

“That’s fine by me,” you said, barely recovering from being called ‘lovely’ before you spoke again. “I just like talking to you.”

You paused a moment, weighing your options carefully, while John noisily snaffled some more jam. Decision made, you gave him a slow, somewhat pointed smile.

“Easy to get addicted to things you like.”

John seemed surprised by your forwardness. To your relief, he mirrored your smile, then lost his nerve and looked down at the tabletop.

“I like talking to you too,” John said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

When he looked back up, his cheeks were tinged pink.

“You’re a bit weird but I like you.”

You scoffed.

“I’m a bit weird?”

“In a nice way!”

“I think you’ll find people find me very humorous.”

“Is that what they say? Or do they say ‘a bit funny’.”

“Oh, look who feels like talking now!”

“Like I said, I like talking to you,” John said, and now the pink had spread to his ears. “Even if you are a bit weird.”

Smiling, you poked his chest gently with the tip of your index finger.

“Even if you are a bit weird, Captain.”

John swayed backwards a little, then forwards again, grinning so prettily, it almost made you sigh when he said,

“Aye, Captain.”

John went back to his books after that; he’d procrastinated enough.

You let him go, trying not to pout. Although it had been fun to distract him for a little while, there was a nervousness behind his pretty eyes, like his mind was somewhere else. He had exams in just a few weeks, you didn’t want to be the reason John failed at something for the first time in his life.

Feeling moony, you gazed at the cake he’d decorated, spinning it slowly around on its turntable.

It was, admittedly, a little skew-whiff, but you couldn’t get John’s proud smile out of your mind.

He really did seem to like it here. Maybe he really liked you too.

“I could ice that for you, if you like.”

You weren’t sure how long Mickey had been watching you but when you shot him a dark look, he seemed very pleased with himself.

“Could write ‘Mrs. Deacon’ in nice swirly letters? Pipe a couple of roses? Hearts?”

“You and I both know he’d take my name.”

“Amongst other things.”

“Haven’t you got madeleines to make, Michael?”

“Haven’t you got meringues to whisk?”

That shut you up. You’d completely forgotten about the stupid meringues. The egg whites you’d separated earlier would be completely ruined, you’d have to start all over again.

“Shit,” You muttered. “Sorry, got distracted.”

“I can see that.”

You rolled your eyes, huffed, and went to grab some more eggs from the fridge, but Mickey held out an enormous arm to block your way.

“Leave it now. That whisk is definitely kaput and I think Gladys needs help out front.”

That made you pause.

You and Mickey shared management of the kitchen. Neither of you was the boss of the other, though your… Imperious personality tended to overpower Mickey’s more casual approach to life. It wasn’t like him to tell you what to do.

“What are you up to, Caine?”

“Up to? Me?”

“Mickey…”

He sighed, exasperated, but Mickey was smiling.

“I just thought you might like to stare at lover boy some more.”

You flushed, tripping over your words.

“Since when did- I don’t stare.”

“You definitely do. But it’s okay, so does John.”

That made your heart stumble in your chest.

“No, he doesn’t.”

“He does.”

“He doesn’t!”

“Yes, he bloody does. You don’t see him when he comes in, all smiley and stupid cos he’s spotted you. And you don’t have to listen to the endless bloody questions. How long has she worked here? Does she like going to the pictures? Does she get much time off? It’d be annoying if it wasn’t so cute.”

Words failed you again. You thought you’d been able to keep your cards fairly close to your chest. It wasn’t like you to get flustered over a boy but John was so different, so sweet and sincere and new, you could hardly think around him sometimes.

Mickey had been teasing you about it for weeks, but this was the first time he’d mentioned John showing any interest in you too.

You tried to be cool, tried to take a deep breath and nonchalantly change the subject, but self-restraint slipped through your fingers and before you knew it, you asked,

“Has he… Said anything… About me?“

Mickey levelled you with a weary look that almost made you tell him to forget about it, but then he said,

“He asked if you were seeing anyone.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Shut up.”

“I wish I had.”

You bit your lip, trying not to look too pleased.

“That’s…” You forced down your smile but it was like stuffing a sleeping bag back into its sack. “That’s very interesting.”

Mickey sighed again and went to start preparing tomorrow’s batch of lemon madeleines.

“Just don’t come on too strong. He’s good at his job, don’t wanna scare him off.”

You tutted and told him to shut up again, but Mickey was already across the kitchen, loudly singing along to the radio to drown you out.

The electric whisk still sat abandoned on the side. It would probably have cooled down enough now for you to make some last minute meringues before things started to wind down.

Your mind drifted to John’s long fingers, and the way his hair fell around his shoulders as he leaned over his textbooks, his brow furrowed in concentration.

You went to join Gladys behind the counter where you did, in fact, stare at John for the rest of the afternoon.

Funnily enough, it turns out Mickey was right. John did stare back.

You caught him, just once, but you thought about it for the rest of the day.

It happened by chance.

The bakery door swung open as someone else sought shelter from the rain, dragging your attention away from the tea you were making for a different customer. Sluggish with exhaustion after a long day, you let your gaze drift across the shop until you locked eyes with John’s.

He had propped his chin up on the heel of his palm, his long fingers cupping his cheek in such a way that, for a moment, you felt a stab of jealousy. His position pushed his lips together into a tempting pout, snagged in one corner by a soft, quiet smile.

When you smiled back, John quickly straightened his back. Disappointed, you watched as he gave you a faint smile in response then forced his attention back to his textbook, hiding behind his long hair.

Dismay turned to delight. He was blushing.

The rest of the day passed considerably better after that. You sliced bread, wiped down tables, swept pastries into little paper bags, and watched the rain fall.

It seemed endless. There were no little grey clouds, no shining pavement. Instead, the sky was dark and purple like a mottled bruise, and the rain fell straight down as if each droplet weighed a ton. It was the kind of rain that seeped through your clothes and your skin, right to the marrow.

As you watched the roads turn into streams and the sky roll and split, you felt a shiver trickle over your skin. You were very glad you were inside looking out.

When the clock finally struck six and all the customers had braved the rain to head home, you wandered over to John’s table with one of the bakery’s signature white bags in hand.

“That’s closing,” you said, though you hated to say goodbye to him. “Might wanna scarper before you get roped into helping.”

John closed his textbook with a look of relief, as if he couldn't be more pleased you’d interrupted him. His face was drawn, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. You could practically see all the calculations and equations he’d been memorising swirling around his head like a cloud, so it surprised you when he asked,

“Can I help?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head.

“It’s not much fun. There’s a lot to do and it’s not exactly glamorous.” You smirked. “Not very befitting of a rock star.”

John was too tired to argue. He just gave you a sleepy smile that almost had you reaching out to cup his face.

You thought about running your thumb across his cheek until John was leaning into your hand, humming happily.

Instead, you did the only thing you could do to express your affection for the moment, and placed the bag on the table beside John’s books.

He immediately shook his head.

“I can’t.”

“It’s yesterday’s bread and a couple of pastries. It’ll just get chucked, John.”

“Don’t you have a..? A place you can donate to?”

“Most of it goes to the neighbours and the restaurants on the high street. I take some, so does Mickey. Most shelters don’t take fresh food so we just try and give it away where we can.”

Finally, John smiled.

“So I’m a charity case?”

You grinned.

“You’re a special case.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. But he was still smiling.

You watched him curiously reach into the bag. You might have lied a little. There were actually two loaves of bread and at least three bags of pastries, but in your defence, it had been a slow day because of the rain.

“I’m not gonna fit into my jeans,” John grumbled, though he seemed pleased with his haul.

“My cunning plan. Softening you up.”

It wasn’t just that John seemed a little on the thin side. Times were hard, not least for a student far from home, trying to juggle studying, a band, and a part-time job. If you could help John out, even a little, how could you resist?

John looked at you like he wanted to say something. It actually made you a little flustered as you watched his mind whirr behind his pretty eyes, but then he seemed to either lose his nerve or think better of it and he turned to pack his things away.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, once all his books were back in his bag and he’d slung his thin jacket on.

You watched him nervously, wondering if you should suggest he stay until the rain slowed some more, but it was getting late and John had been hard at work all day.

“Don’t forget your bread.”

You grinned as you handed him the bag.

John laughed softly, but when he took it from you, his fingers got all tangled with yours. Blushing, he managed to shuffle the handles up his wrist and then wrapped his long fingers around yours in the most painfully awkward handshake either of you had ever been a part of.

John had flustered himself into silence, you could see he wanted to just disappear, so you let him go, trying hard not to laugh.

He gave you one last wave then turned to leave.

You glanced down. You couldn’t help it, it was second nature by now. You were only human.

For some reason, the backside of his jeans was completely covered in icing sugar. There must have been some on the stool he’d perched on while decorating.

“Oh, John you’ve got-”

You reached forward without thinking, aiming to brush it off for him, but a much larger hand came down on top of yours, slapping you away.

“Steady,” Mickey said, then tutted and pretended to smack your arm. “Bloody animal.”

/

John sat cross-legged on his bed. His digs were unusually quiet that evening. Everyone was trying to get their heads down and study, he thought. At last.

He reached for the plate by his feet and picked up one of the slices of toast he’d made for his tea. The rest of the loaf you’d given him was on his desk, along with a couple of brownies and some vanilla slices. The rest had been spread out in the kitchen in the hopes that the other borders would make good use of it.

Munching happily, John plucked out a few notes on his guitar. It had travelled all the way down from Leicester with him but had been rather neglected over the last few weeks. His friends were always encouraging him to write something, and John was feeling good tonight, safe and warm and happy.

He wondered how he might tell you that it was all because of you.

John’s fingers still tingled from where your hands had touched. It was stupid, really. He didn’t think he’d ever been so giddy over a girl before, but here you were, occupying his thoughts, as always.

It had been a long time since anyone touched him. Well, he supposed, that wasn’t exactly true. Roger often squeezed his shoulder and Freddie was always clapping him on the back encouragingly. Mickey, too, was friendly and always shook John’s hand vigorously when he came into the kitchen in the morning.

Handshakes, brief hugs, brushing shoulders, these touches always left him feeling tensed up, like a snail trying to squeeze back into its shell. John could feel their hands on him long after they’d gone. It was almost painful.

But you. When you touched him, it felt like his heart would beat out of his chest, but he was smiling. The difference, John thought, was that he wanted you to touch him, an entirely new and completely terrifying prospect. One he would consider at greater length tomorrow.

John drifted off that night, his thoughts then his dreams heavy with thoughts of you, your soft smile, and your fingers as they danced across his shoulder, his waist, his hip, down his back, until you were pulling him into your arms, that smile still shining as you wrapped those lovely fingers around the front of his shirt, and he fell into a breath-taking kiss.

//

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