I huff out a quiet laugh and stay right where I am, anyone watching would absolutely assume we're together, holding the plate steady while she works her way through most of the serving. Her fingers brush mine twice when reaching for the last few pieces of meat, and both times her breath catches just slightly, her pulse visible in the delicate line of her throat.
When she finally finishes, I set the empty plate aside but don't immediately retreat back to my territory. Instead, I let myself have just a few seconds to stand here, breathing in her scent, watching the color return to her cheeks, memorizing the exact slope of her shoulders and the way afternoon sunlight catches in her strawberry-blonde hair.
"Thank you," she says quietly, still not turning to face me.
"Always." The word comes out rougher than I intend, weighted with meanings I'm not sure she's ready to hear.
A family with three small children approaches the booth, and the moment shatters. I return to my side like a good neighbor, but I catch Quinn's quick glance toward me, something soft and confused flickering across her features before she buries it beneath her professional mask.
The afternoon stretches on, hot and busy and surprisingly comfortable. We fall into an unspoken rhythm. When Quinn gets overwhelmed with customers, I seamlessly pick up overflow from my side, directing people to her display when they're clearly looking for something sweet. When a particularly difficult customer tries to argue with me about pricing, Quinn materializes at the boundary line with a bright smile and a perfectly crafted passive-aggressive comment that somehow both defuses the situation and makes the man slink away in embarrassment.
We're good together. Better than good. And I can tell from the way Quinn keeps catching herself almost smiling when she thinks I'm not looking that she's starting to realize it too.
Around three in the afternoon, I notice her energy flagging again. This time I don't ask permission, just prepare a small sampler plate with a bit of everything: pulled pork, a slice of sausage, a rib, some of my smoked mac and cheese from the batch I brought as a side offering.
I round the tape line and appear at her elbow while she's boxing up a large macaron order. She startles slightly, then follows my gaze to the loaded plate in my hand.
"Lanek—"
"Open," I say simply, holding up a piece of sausage.
Her eyes go wide. "Absolutely not."
"You need to eat. Your hands are shaking again." I keep the sausage right there, waiting. "Unless you'd prefer I announce to everyone in hearing range that you're too stubborn to take care of yourself?"
"You wouldn't dare." But there's no conviction behind the words.
"Try me."
We stare at each other for a long moment, a battle of wills that we've fought a hundred times in a hundred different contexts. Finally, with a huff of pure frustration, she leans forward and takes the sausage directly from my fingers with her teeth.
The feeling of her lips brushing my skin, the warm wetness of her mouth, the way her eyes stay locked on mine in defiant challenge while she chews—it takes every ounce of control I possess not to react visibly. My entire body goes tight, heat flooding through me in a rush that has nothing to do with the afternoon sun.
She swallows, her throat working, and I immediately offer another piece. This time she doesn't protest, just accepts it the same way, her gaze never leaving mine.
We continue like this, me feeding her piece after piece while curious neighbors pass by and absolutely notice what we're doing. I couldn't care less. Let them look. Let them see that this fierce, infuriating, perfect woman is allowing me to care for her, even if she won't admit that's what this is.
By the time the plate is empty, Quinn's cheeks are flushed pink, her breathing slightly uneven, and the air between us feels charged with the same electric tension that filled her destroyed kitchen right before the sprinklers went off.
"Better?" I ask again, echoing the same question from this morning.
"Yes," she admits, and this time there's no deflection, no attempt to minimize. Just honest acknowledgment.
I lean in slightly, because my words are for her alone. "Good. Because I need you strong, little baker. Can't have you collapsing before the day is done."
"I wasn't going to collapse," she protests, but there's no heat in it.
"Maybe not. But I'm not taking chances." I let my fingers brush along her jawline, just once, so quick it could be accidental. "Not with you."
Before she can respond, I retreat back to my designated territory, leaving her staring after me with an expression somewhere between exasperated and wanting.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of customers and carefully orchestrated moments of casual care. I make sure Quinn has water. I wordlessly hand her samples to try whenever I'm testing a new batch. When someone's toddler knocks over her carefully arranged cookie display, I'm there immediately, helping her rebuild while the mortified parent apologizes profusely.
And through it all, her barriers crumble bit by bit. The way she stops flinching when I cross into her space. The way she starts naturally angling toward me when making recommendations to customers. The small, genuine smile she gives me when an elderly Orc woman compliments our "beautiful partnership" and asks how long we've been married.
"We're not—" Quinn starts automatically.
"Yet," I finish smoothly, meeting the woman's knowing gaze with a grin.
