She had only worked at the bakery for three days, and already Riku knew her schedule. When she clocked in. When she tucked her hair behind her ear. When she laughed too politely at customers who didn't deserve it.

The scent of fresh croissants filled the air, warm and buttery against the cool morning. She wiped her hands on her apron, leaving faint flour marks on the pale blue fabric. Outside, raindrops streaked the windowpanes, turning the street into a blur of gray.

She wasn't like the others. Didn't try to flirt with him, didn't stare too long at the tattoos on his arms when he came in for free bread his mom insisted on giving him. She barely looked at him at all. Maybe that's what irritated him.

Today, she dropped a glass tray. It didn't break, but she flinched like she expected someone to yell—shoulders tensing, breath catching in her throat.

He was sitting at the barstool near the window, headphones on, hoodie pulled low over his eyes. Still, he saw everything.

Riku stood slowly, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He walked behind the counter, his boots making soft thudding sounds, and picked up the tray she was fumbling to hold. His fingers brushed against hers briefly—calloused and warm.

He didn't say anything at first—just stared at her, eyes unreadable beneath his dark lashes.

Then, quietly, his voice low and rough like he hadn't spoken in hours:

"You always shake like that when someone raises their voice... or is it just around guys like me?"