The sharp, acrid scent of burnt sugar hung thick in the air, a metallic tang that scraped the back of Elin's throat. It was the smell of failure.
Elin stood utterly still by the mouth of the steel oven, her gaze locked on the cooling rack. The tray of croissants looked like a mockery of baking, the delicate, intended gold flake around the edges now a uniform, angry mahogany brown.
She reached out, gingerly touching a darkened tip. It crumbled to soot beneath her fingertip, the fragile, buttery layers inside completely ruined, replaced by an impatient, mouth-puckering bitterness that made her stomach churn.
The croissant she wanted was a whisper of crispness and warmth; what she got was a cinder.
With a shuddering sigh, she wrenched the tray from the rack. The clang of metal on marble echoed in the small, early-morning quiet of the bakery, a sound far too loud for the gentle space.
It startled the stray tabby cat, Roux, who had been curled in a patch of sunlight near the window. The cat stretched, then gave her a look of offended judgment before retreating further into the shadow of a flour sack.
"Sorry," she mumbled, the word tasting dry and meaningless. The apology wasn't for Roux. It was for the ruined ingredients and the spoiled morning.
Elin had been like this all morning: a vessel of frayed nerves and distracted hands. Every batch was an exercise in frustration.
The first lot of brioche was taken out ten minutes too early, the centres still wet and doughy, collapsing under their own weight. The next, a tray of cinnamon rolls, she had left to proof too long, their syrupy filling bubbling and running over the parchment paper, turning into a sticky, over-sweet goo that crystallized on the edges. Then the focaccia, which she had accidentally double-salted, coming out stiff, dense, and utterly inedible.
Nothing she touched tasted right.
Nothing held the gentle, honest warmth she had always infused into her pastries and breads.
Nothing felt like him.
The usually warm, inviting scent of fermenting dough, blooming yeast, and slow-melting butter had been pushed out. In its place was this heavy, cloying aroma of mistakes—of scorched sugar and overcooked doughs.
Elin stripped off her flour-dusted apron, a desperate gesture to remove the evidence of failure. She pressed the cool back of her hand against her forehead. The pressure did nothing to ease the dull, throbbing ache behind her eyes, a physical manifestation of her exhaustion. She had barely slept ever since...the moment she saw the way Axton had looked at her.
It wasn't anger. Anger she could fight, argue with, perhaps even fix. It was far worse. It was a blank, sterile absence of connection. He hadn't shouted, hadn't accused; he had simply looked through her as if she were a pane of glass, then quietly, decisively, he had turned away.
That look had followed her home. It had followed her to bed. It had followed her here, to the one place that had always been her peace.
But now even peace refused her. The silence in the bakery, which she usually craved, felt less like calm and more like a vacuum where any comforting sound had been sucked away.
She let her weight sag against the cool, marble counter, the refrigerated chill seeping through her linen apron. Her gaze fixed on the wall clock above the display case, time moved too slowly, each tick pressing into her chest.
By now, Axton would be at his office next to Vivo City. He would be moving through the polished glass and steel towers of his world, impeccably dressed, probably already buried in a stack of spreadsheets or leading a high-stakes meeting. He would be playing the role of the capable, collected professional, seamlessly pretending that his personal life was not a delicate structure on the verge of collapse.
He would be flawlessly, professionally, pretending everything was fine. And in doing so, pretending she didn't exist.
Her throat constricted, dry and tight, as if she'd swallowed a mouthful of the flour that coated her workspace.
For hours last night, she had rehearsed the scene. In her mind, she crafted the perfect speech: a blend of desperate apologies, carefully structured explanations, and the undeniable, raw truth. She imagined the precise inflection, the moment she would reach out and touch his arm. It wasn't what it looked like. Please, let me explain.
But the words never sounded right. When she finally risked whispering them out loud to the empty space of the bakery, they fell flat, brittle, and utterly unconvincing. They were flimsy shields against the wall of certainty Axton had built around himself.
He wouldn't believe her. Not after what he heard. Not after seeing Sebastian there.
She dug her fingernails into the heel of her palm, hard enough to feel the sting. She was tired of the frantic loop of self-blame and silent despair. She was tired of being immobilized by the fear of his rejection.
Still, she couldn't stand doing nothing.
Elin peeled off the flour-caked apron, tossing it onto a stool. Her movement was sudden, decisive. She moved to the long, marble prep table and began to lay out the fundamental ingredients: a block of cold, pristine butter, a mound of fine white flour, and the coarse sparkle of sugar. She had spent the morning battling her craft, but now, she sought refuge in it.
If she couldn't express the necessary apologies, the complex truths, or the stubborn depth of her love with her voice, maybe she could speak the only language she had ever truly mastered. She would say it through her baking.
This time, she moved slowly, every gesture meticulous. She weighed the flour carefully, double-checked the temperature of the milk, and began the laborious process of lamination. Measuring, kneading, and the rhythmic, muscular folding of butter into dough. The sheer concentration required for the activity caused her racing thoughts to quiet down, with the familiar repetition acting as a gentle touch on her shoulder. The coolness of the butter between her palms grounded her.
She could still feel the warmth of that day, it's the day where Axton first tried her croissants.
They were plain croissants, simple, buttery, and flaky, pulled fresh and steaming from the oven. He had shown up unexpectedly at closing time, looking lost and worn down by a brutal day.
He'd taken a bite, his eyes closing in immediate appreciation. He chewed slowly, then looked at her, "You'll ruin other bakeries for me," he'd said, his voice deep and warm, a sound that used to feel like home.
A weak, flickering smile touched her lips at the memory. It was a brief, gentle reprieve from the ache, but it vanished quickly, leaving the cold reality in its place.
She slid the newly shaped, butter-heavy crescents onto a baking sheet, their potential still pale and raw. They went into the oven. Immediately, the heavy scent of failure was pushed out by the clean, rising perfume of melting butter and yeast.
To manage the agonizing wait, she began to scrub the counter until the marble surface gleamed. She wiped down the mixing bowls, rearranged the spice jars—anything to keep her body moving. But her gaze was a magnetic field, constantly pulled back to the digital timer on the wall. Every second seemed to stretch into a minute.
When the timer finally let out its sharp, cheerful ring, her heart lurched so violently it felt like a bird trying to escape her ribcage. She pulled the tray out, holding her breath, half-expecting to see another disaster.
But they were perfect.
Golden brown. Crisp on the edges. Flaky layers that broke softly under her fingertips.
Working quickly, with a focused precision, she transferred a dozen of the cooling pastries to a crisp, white bakery box.
Before she could let the crippling doubt take root, Elin grabbed her bag and keys. She pushed through the back door of the shop and stepped out into the alley. The early morning light was a soft, pale gold washing over the brickwork, but she was blind to its beauty. Her focus was entirely internal, fixed on the violent pounding of her heart with every step she took toward his office tower.
The walk was an internal battle. She almost hesitated at the first intersection, the thought of his cold, absent expression making her throat constrict.
What if he refuses to see me? The fear was potent. What if he threw it away?
When she reached the towering glass and steel monument, the polished modern black sign gleaming with the company's name, her stomach twisted into a painful knot. She has only been here twice. The building has always felt too alien, too modern, too cold and too aggressively clean. It was a contrast to the flour-dusted, warm chaos of her bakery.
She pushed through the revolving door into a lobby of unforgiving marble and muted lighting. A few well-dressed figures strode past her, their faces focused and intent. Elin felt suddenly exposed in her flour-smudged jeans and simple jacket, the scent of fresh butter clinging to her like a misplaced perfume.
The sleek, young receptionist at the desk, whose dark suit and perfect makeup seemed as sharp as the building's architecture, glanced up. Her smile was polite, practiced, and immediately hesitant. "Good morning. Do you have an appointment?" she asked, her voice modulated to a cool, professional register.
"I—I'm here to see Mr. Creighton," Elin managed, clutching the box so tightly the cardboard creaked. Her voice sounded thin and small, utterly lost in the vast lobby. "I'm a friend. An urgent matter."
The receptionist tilted her head slightly, her gaze flicking dismissively from Elin's worn jacket to the innocuous white box. The word friend hung in the air, clearly failing to impress. "He's currently in a key departmental review," she said, her tone softening with forced empathy. "I can certainly send a message up and let him know you're here, but it might be quite a while. Would you like to wait, or would you prefer to leave a message?" The subtext was clear: You should leave.
Elin's heart sank, but her resolve hardened. She refused to retreat. Leaving the box was an anonymous surrender, turning her vulnerable, edible statement into a mere forgotten lunch. She needed to deliver it herself, see his eyes, and force a confrontation.
"I'll wait," Elin said, her voice firmer this time. She took a deep breath, trying to steady the frantic drumbeat in her chest. She placed the precious box on the edge of the smooth, cold marble counter. "Please," she added, "just tell him Elin is here."
The cool, measured voice of the receptionist sliced through the sterile silence of the lobby.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Elin," the woman said, her voice a practiced blend of professional regret and distant indifference. She held a sleek handset loosely in her manicured hand. "Mr. Creighton says he simply can't step out at the moment. He asked me to thank you for coming."
The words were a flat, decisive finality.
They weren't a rejection of her croissants, or even a denial of a conversation; they were a clean, surgical severance of her presence. Can't step out. The phrase implied she was a momentary distraction, a minor scheduling error not worthy of interrupting the flow of a truly important day.
Elin's chest felt hollow, a sudden, heavy sinking sensation as if the air had been violently sucked from her lungs. She pressed her lips together, fighting the sudden, fierce sting behind her eyes. "Oh," was all she could manage, the sound a thin, inadequate whisper swallowed by the marble floor.
She knew what Axton was doing. He wasn't trapped in a meeting; he was trapped by his own certainty. Of them. Of her.
A wave of humiliation washed over her. She stood there, a baker holding a box of perfection, exposed in a world that valued sharp suits and digital efficiency over butter and sincerity. She had risked everything—her peace, her pride, her day's work—on the strength of that small, blue-ribboned box, and now it felt like a foolish, childish offering.
She nodded once, a quick, jerky motion that belied the stillness of her inner world. She forced a faint, almost non-existent smile for the receptionist, a soft thank-you that was barely audible. It was not gratitude she felt, but a cold, aching resignation.
As she reached the door and pushed through the turning glass, Elin didn't look back. There was nothing to see but a clean, cold space, and the receptionist already returning to her screen, having neatly disposed of the problem.
With every step she took away from the glass fortress, the white box she hadn't left behind suddenly felt like an acute mistake, a final, futile attempt to mend something that had been irrevocably snapped.
Of course he couldn't. She mentally repeated the receptionist's clinical words, trying to internalize the logic. He was busy. He had every reason not to see her. He was protecting himself, protecting his structured world from the messy reality she was bringing to his door.
She was seconds from stepping into the crosswalk when a voice, rough and startlingly near, cut through the low, insistent hum of city traffic.
"Elin."
She froze mid-stride, her body locking up entirely. Slowly, almost painfully, she pivoted back toward the building.
Axton was standing just inside the lobby's entrance, framed by the bright morning light. The sight of him was a complete shock. He looked nothing like the impeccably tailored, composed professional she was used to seeing. His crisp white shirt was pulled loose from his waistband, his sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms as if he had performed the frantic gesture without even realizing it. His tie, usually cinched with military precision, hung limp and loose around his neck.
His blonde hair was dishevelled, spiking at odd angles, as if he'd been running his hands through it in bewildered frustration all morning. The pronounced dark circles beneath his eyes made him so haggard.
For a suspended second, the world seemed to tilt and blur. Her heartbeat was a frantic, loud drumming in her own ears, drowning out everything else.
Behind him, along the corridors and just beyond the reception desk, a few curious employees momentarily forgot their corporate cool. They peeked from behind cubicle walls and hallway corners, whispering softly, fascinated by the sudden intrusion of intense, private drama into their regulated workspace.
Axton's gaze flicked toward them, a lightning-fast movement, sharp and warning.
The employees scattered instantly, retreating to the safety of their tasks.
When his eyes finally returned to hers, the professional harshness, the quick anger he'd shown his staff, was entirely gone. What remained was a profound, bone-deep exhaustion—the look of a man who hadn't slept, couldn't focus, and was utterly defeated by his own inability to resolve a situation.
And beneath the fatigue, unmistakable even from this distance, was something that looked exactly like regret. He hadn't just come down to send her away; he had come down because he couldn't stand the thought of her leaving.
He walked up to her without a word, each step slow but sure.
His eyes were on the small white box still in her hands.
"You didn't have to come," he said, his voice quiet, rough with strain.
"I... I wanted to," Elin replied, the words a difficult escape from her throat, her voice trembling with the effort to remain steady. "I didn't know if you'd even..." She couldn't finish the thought—if you'd even speak to me, if you'd let me explain, if you'd still care.
Before she could articulate the fear that had driven her across town, his hand moved. He reached out and, with an unnerving gentleness, took the box from her. His thumb brushed the soft skin of her knuckles as he accepted the offering, and the brief, accidental contact sent a sharp, almost painful jolt of warmth through her entire arm.
Axton held the box for a moment, his gaze fixed on the pale blue ribbon. He slowly, carefully, untied the knot, the satin slithering loose. He lifted the lid, and the heavy, metallic smell of the city was immediately washed away by the glorious, intoxicating scent of freshly baked croissants. It was buttery, warm, yeasty, and overwhelmingly familiar.
He looked down at the dozen golden-brown pastries nestled inside for a long moment, a stillness settling over his rigid shoulders. Then, slowly, he lifted one, his thumb gently tracing the fragile, flaky crust. He held it close to his face and inhaled deeply, an audible, shaky breath that seemed to ease the tension pulling his shoulders tight. A faint, tired, but absolutely real smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It was the first genuine expression she'd seen on his face since that day.
"You remembered," he murmured, the words barely loud enough to carry, heavy with something deeper than just recognition of a pastry.
Elin's chest constricted painfully, a complex mix of relief and renewed vulnerability. "Of course I did," she insisted, her voice gaining a fraction of its usual strength. "You... you liked them. They're your favourite."
He looked up then, meeting her eyes.
She saw the storm in his eyes—not simple anger, but a chaotic swirl of genuine hurt, the visible weight of guilt over his hasty judgment, and a profound, undeniable longing. It was the look of a man who had spent a sleepless night staring at a wall, wrestling with his own feelings.
Axton swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw working as if he were trying to chew through a thousand unsaid words. He set the box down carefully on the narrow stone ledge behind them, giving the fragile gift the respect it deserved. He didn't offer a defence, or an explanation, or even an apology yet.
"Let's talk," he said, the roughness in his voice now layered with a clear, exhausted resolve.