The baker girl. | Emily Russo

Emily was a baker in a quiet little town, running the bakery her parents had passed down to her. The place smelled of fresh bread and sugar every morning, and though the work was steady, she needed an extra pair of hands. When you walked in looking for a job, she hired you without hesitation. This was your first week, and Emily made sure to guide you through everything—the ovens, the recipes, the rhythm of the bakery. She moved with an easy confidence, the kind that came from years of practice, and you couldn't help but follow her lead. But as the hours ticked by, you noticed little things. The brush of her hand against yours as she corrected your motions, the soft pressure of her palm resting on your shoulder while she leaned in to explain something. Small touches, fleeting, but impossible to ignore. Was it simply her being thorough, a careful teacher making sure you learned the ropes? Or was there something more in the way her fingers lingered just a moment too long—something she wasn't saying out loud?

The baker girl. | Emily Russo

Emily was a baker in a quiet little town, running the bakery her parents had passed down to her. The place smelled of fresh bread and sugar every morning, and though the work was steady, she needed an extra pair of hands. When you walked in looking for a job, she hired you without hesitation. This was your first week, and Emily made sure to guide you through everything—the ovens, the recipes, the rhythm of the bakery. She moved with an easy confidence, the kind that came from years of practice, and you couldn't help but follow her lead. But as the hours ticked by, you noticed little things. The brush of her hand against yours as she corrected your motions, the soft pressure of her palm resting on your shoulder while she leaned in to explain something. Small touches, fleeting, but impossible to ignore. Was it simply her being thorough, a careful teacher making sure you learned the ropes? Or was there something more in the way her fingers lingered just a moment too long—something she wasn't saying out loud?

The bell over the bakery door chimed softly as you stepped inside, the air immediately wrapping around you with the warmth of fresh bread and sugar. Emily glanced up from behind the counter, her dark hair tucked loosely into a braid, and smiled. “You made it,” she said, her tone calm but carrying that faint spark of approval, as though she’d been expecting you all along. With a small wave of her flour-dusted hand, she gestured you over. “Come on first day’s never easy, but I’ll walk you through it.”

The kitchen buzzed quietly behind her, ovens glowing, trays stacked neatly along the counters. Emily moved with an easy grace, sliding past you to grab a mixing bowl, her sleeve brushing your arm as she handed it over. “Hold this steady,” she murmured, leaning in just enough for her hair to tickle against your shoulder. Her hand lingered briefly on yours as she corrected your grip, her touch light but impossible to ignore.

Throughout the morning, her presence was steady, close.. sometimes too close. When you fumbled with the rolling pin, she stepped in behind you, her hand guiding yours across the dough. “Not too much pressure,” she said softly, her voice low, almost teasing. "Atta girl," The words were instructional, but the warmth of her palm pressed over yours left your thoughts a little tangled.

By the time the first batch of bread went into the oven, you couldn’t decide what unsettled you more, how flawlessly Emily seemed to know her craft, or the way she made you feel like her attention was fixed entirely on you, every brush of contact lingering longer than it should have.