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"I bake each one with love," the man says softly.
Krem nearly jumps out of his skin when he turns and sees the lanky guy, eyes all but hidden under a ball cap. "Beg pardon?"
"Your friend, she asked why they were so delicious. I bake each one with extra love. Have a nice night."
Krem leaves the bake shop feeling mighty bemused, but his friend Lace is right, the cookies, lovingly made, are delicious.
"I'm sorry," the same guy says, when Krem arrives at the bake shop a few nights later. "I bake all the cookies, but they're just regular cookies."
"Oh, it's uh… I knew it was a metaphor," Krem says.
He's a tiny bit afraid of the cookies now, but they're there in the display case, so cutely decorated for Hallowe'en.
"I'll take two ghosts, two spiderwebs, and two zombie pumpkins." Poor impulse control has always been one of his trademarks.
"Enjoy," says the man. He packs them in the blue striped bakery box and hands them across the counter.
Krem glances back through the window after he leaves. The guy has removed his hat and is shaking out curly blond hair. When he looks up, their eyes catch, and Krem sees they're the bluest blue he's ever known.
Why that makes him feel warm all over, he doesn't know. Or, he pretends not to.
Four nights later, he's still avoiding the bake shop.
Lace texts him a picture of a little skeleton cookie about the size of her thumb but so intricately detailed it boggles the mind.
Cookie Guy asked if you were going to stop by, she texts.
Krem looks out the window. It's getting dark early, this late into autumn, but the bake shop is only a few blocks from his studio. He's not sure what their hours are. He's had enough sugar this week and he certainly doesn't need anymore.
He's so into you, Lace adds.
Shush, I'm on a Zoom call, he texts back as he stands up and grabs his coat.
The guy is turning the sign to 'closed' when Krem walks up to the door. Krem shrugs, mimes an 'oh well,' but the blond man unlatches the door and pushes it open a few inches.
"There are still some cookies from today," he says. "If you'd like."
There were a few sugar cookies left, and a handful of biscotti, but Cole -- the soft spoken blond man's name is Cole -- offers to bake him something fresh. Krem's sweet tooth couldn't say no, and after a few moments of watching Cole work, well… He's real glad he said yes.
Cole mixes ingredients without weighing them, just eyeballs everything and throws it in the mixer.
"Baking's like science, I thought," Krem remarks from his vantage point on the wide stainless steel prep table.
Cole hums his agreement. "Yes, needs to be correct, exact. Very precise. Or the ingredients won't get along."
Krem doesn't want to say it. He knows he'll feel like an ass if he does. He says it anyways because sometimes poor impulse control is one of his trademarks. "But you're not weighing or measuring anything?"
Instead of being offended or rolling his eyes, Cole huffs a small laugh. There's a teeny smudge of flour on his forehead.
"But I know," he says.
He doesn't elaborate, but Krem is so taken by the flour that he can't demand more answers. Like a string is attached and drawing him, he reaches out and brushes the flour away.
Cole smiles, his eyes flash with it, his cheek pink.
"Sorry," Krem says automatically.
"Sorry?" Cole tilts his head, looking eerily like a bird. "I don't think so."
"Oh, well, uh…"
"Don't be sorry," Cole clarifies. "Sorry is sad, sorry is solemn. Cookies aren't either of those," he says, cranking a kitchen timer with one hand. He slides the cookie sheet in the nearest oven and hops up on the table beside Krem, too carefully to be an accident, but far too close to be casual.
"Fourteen minutes," he says.
Krem knows his cheeks are hot, even though it's not particularly warm in the kitchen.
"How do you normally kill time, waiting for the oven?" Krem asks. He runs a hand through his hair. He notices Cole tracking the motion closely.
"Kill time?" Cole asks.
"You know, like, what do you do while you wait?"
"I wait," Cole says simply.
Krem feels like he could talk to Cole for six hours and still not feel like he's one hundred percent on steady ground. Cole's a bit like a puzzle.
"We can 'kill time' though," Cole says. Krem can almost hear the air quotes, though Cole's hands don't move from his lap.
"Yeah?"
"You could kiss me."
Krem let out a little wheeze, eyes widening.
"Sorry," Cole said, frowning. "I thought you --"
"No, you weren't wrong. I just. You know you talk a little… earnestly."
"Cadash says it's refreshing."
"It's certainly something," Krem agrees.
He leans forward and kisses Cole then, because poor impulse control is one of his greatest strengths and because Cole had asked so nicely.
It's only a for moment or so, presumably because there's only eleven minutes left on the cookie timer, but Cole slips his tongue along the seam of Krem's lips. It's undignified, the noise that Krem makes, but it must sound like an invitation to Cole (it sort of was).
They lose time and Krem is about fully ready to lay Cole down on his back on the chilly prep table, but the timer rings noisily and Cole's extricating himself to fetch the cookies.
"Should I decorate them for you?"
"They can't all be for me," Krem says. "Cole, that's like three dozen cookies."
"You like sweets," Cole says plainly.
Krem nods because yes, that's it, the truth of it. He's got no recourse to argue. "Okay, pack them up," he sighs. He's going to have to load Lace up with some next time she comes over.
Cole packs the cookies up, but leaves a few out on a small china plate. He pours a tall glass of milk and sets the plate and glass in front of Krem.
"I'm also sweet," Cole adds.
Milk does not shoot out of Krem's nose because that would be too embarrassing.
Instead, he only chokes a little. "You are," he says, clearing his throat. Maybe he's getting better with the impulse control thing. "But maybe a date before I pack you up and take you home."
"All right. I'm off Tuesdays," Cole says.
They walk to the front of the shop together, and when Cole kisses him goodnight, it's sweet enough to erase the memory of cookies altogether.