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Seeing X practically naked and showering next to him had done something to me. I already knew I was attracted to him, that I may have even been going so far as to develop feelings for him, but when I caught my first glimpse of him the next day at work, everything felt way more intense. It was like his clothes weren’t even there. Apparently I had a photographic memory now, because when I stepped into the shop just before opening hours and took in his form, I could perfectly picture his carved abs and thick thighs beneath his clothing.
We greeted each other quickly, and I turned away, feeling my shirt sticking to my back as I looked around for anything to distract myself, my eyes settling on the pastry shelf. I gasped, crouching down to it. It was better-stocked than I’d ever seen it, more than half the space taken up by stacks of gorgeous-looking doucefeuilles.
“Score!” I breathed. X made a questioning sound, and I spun. In the tiny space, it meant that my head was basically between his legs, and I stood so quickly I felt whoozy for a moment. Thank goodness he’s so tall, or my face would have been buried in his crotch.
Not that that would necessarily be a bad thing...
“The desserts. There’s a bunch of doucefeuilles this week!” X’s yellow eyes flicked behind me before he shrugged and turned to the espresso station.
“Well, whatever. You may only eat protein powder or whatever it is you do, but I am excited about the doucefeuilles!”
X snorted, and the note of humour in the sound ran through me, making me giddy.
“I don’t just eat protein powder, though I do have that a lot.”
“Then what do you eat? You never stop to take breaks and eat here,” I said, tossing my apron over my head. Automatically, in a movement that had become habit, I turned around for X to tie the straps. As he moved in behind me, my nerves lit up. I bit down on my lip, hard, wanting to do nothing else but arch back against him.
“My physiology was engineered to only need to eat every few days. I eat smaller meals more often than that, but usually no more than once a day.”
“You’re kidding,” I said, turning to face him now that he was done tying my apron. “I would die if I went more than 6 hours without carbs.”
He snorted again, his pupils flaring, and in a movement so quick and sudden it seemed to surprise both of us, he reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
He pulled his hand back quickly, as if he hadn’t meant to do it. But, ex-fucking-scuse me, have you ever heard of a highly trained Chimera guard ever doing something he didn’t mean to do?
X turned to the window, opening it, not meeting my gaze.
“Well, let’s get to work.”
I nodded.
“You got it.”
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THE NEXT TWO WEEKS flew by. Every day seemed busier than the last. There was no shortage of sparking tension between X and me, and that was only slightly made easier by the fact that there were no more shortages of my new favourite dessert.
But the problem with time flying is that it always moves you towards something.
And in my case, it was pushing me closer and closer to the last day of my work contract. Christmas Eve, December 24, would be my last shift at Hallowed be thy Bean. The short-term lease on my living quarters lasted a few days beyond that, but I was already miserable at the prospect of returning to my old life and leaving behind the chiselled, grumpy barista who made perfect milky hearts in my drinks.
But X hadn’t made any sort of concrete moves towards me. There were little things that I thought, I hoped, meant he felt at least something for me, too. Moments when he came up behind me, closer than necessary, to grab something from a shelf. Or the exquisite brush of his rough fingertips against mine as he handed me drinks. But, apart from the hair-tucking thing, he hadn’t done anything else recently. I hadn’t even had the good luck to run into him (literally) at the showers since that one night. He still walked me home every night after work, but I’d never gotten up the nerve to invite him inside or anything, and he’d never tried to invite himself.
He probably realizes, like you, that there’s no point in pursuing anything. You’re leaving so soon. It would be pointless.
But that thought made me most miserable of all. That we might never even see where something between us could go.
So that was how I ended up leaning desolately against the counter on December 23, my last day off before my last shift on Christmas Eve.
I’d come here every single day off I’d had, but today I was finding it especially hard to leave, even though I knew there was a queue of customers waiting behind me.
“Your drink and snack are there,” X said, jerking his snout at the cappuccino and doucefeuille on the counter beside my elbows.
“I know, I know. I’m just not quite ready to leave yet.” Embarrassingly, those words hit me a lot harder than I thought they would, and my voice audibly cracked. X jerked and turned towards me again. His heavy brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to say something -
Only to be interrupted by the opening of a door behind him. I shifted my gaze to see Shelly burst into the space, her apron covered in what looked like flour. She yanked it off and tossed it back through the door she’d just come through. I stood up straighter, smiling at her, and her eyeliner-lined eyes widened as she saw me.
“Sophie!” she cried. She hurried over, coming outside to greet me. We grasped hands warmly, and I smiled again. This was the first time I’d actually met her in person, and she absolutely radiated warmth. That, and Christmas spirit the likes of which I’d literally never seen before on one single person.
Her hair was tinted a festive bright green, creating the perfect Christmas combo with her crimson lipstick. Her earrings were glittering green Christmas tree baubles, and her entire outfit was red and white, like she was some kind of old-style candy cane come to life.
“How are you, my dear? Wow, you’re even prettier in person! Isn’t she, X?”
X ignored her, busy cleaning the milk steam wand, and I blushed.
Shelly grabbed my drink and snack from the counter and led me away from the window. I tossed a regretful look back at X. I knew I’d get to work with him tomorrow, but I was still unfairly sad about not saying goodbye to him just now. But Shelly’s bright and cheery voice snapped my attention back to her.
“So, how are you? How has work been?” We sat on a bench outside the chocolaterie, and Shelly handed me my drink and doucefeuille. “I meant to check on your earlier, to make sure X was treating you alright. He’d a good employee – the best I’ve ever had, frankly. But he can be a little rough around the edges.”
I shook my head, feeling warm just at the thought of the grumpy Chimera.
“No, he’s been amazing to work with, really. He’s a great trainer. I’ve really loved working here.” Fucking Christmas bells from hell, I was going to start crying in a second here.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Shelly said nodding so hard that her earrings flopped up and down. Then she stood. “Sorry I didn’t get to greet you in person before now. I run another restaurant on another level, and let me tell you, I wish I had two of X. That place doesn’t run nearly as smoothly as Hallowed does, and it takes a lot more of my attention and time.”
I stood, too, clutching my drink and snack.
“It’s OK. Thank you so much for the opportunity. Oh!” I looked down at my hands, then back at her. “And thanks for making so many doucefeuilles lately! They’re my favourite. They’re so good!”
Shelly’s eyebrows raised.
“Oh, no, I don’t make those. X does.”
I felt myself jerk and pause, like a tablet glitching out.
“X makes them?” I repeated slowly, probably sounding like a complete idiot.
“Yes, he does. The dough for those pastries takes an incredible amount of kneading. I’m getting damn old and it’s too much work! I could use a robot, but it’s not the same as real hands kneading it. Between the two of us, X is the only one strong enough to make the dough these days. We don’t always stock them because I don’t usually like him coming in early to make them – that grump already works too much as it is. But he’s been coming in early a lot to make them lately. I was wondering why he was doing it.” She pursed her bright red lips and cocked her head, looking at me closely. “You know,” she said slowly, “I want to say, ‘ah, well if they’re your favourite, it makes sense he’d be making them!’ But that doesn’t actually make sense. Don’t get me wrong, he can be very considerate when he wants to be. But in all honesty, he wasn’t too thrilled to have a new coworker to begin with. So I have to admit, I’m surprised he’s doing all that.” I didn’t say anything, absorbing all her words and still trying to make sense of the fact that a seven-foot-tall specialized soldier had been coming into work early to make me desserts. Just because he knew I liked them.
My chest ached, and I barely heard Shelly’s words of goodbye before she hurried away to check on her other restaurant. I stared at X from a distance, my fingers tight around my drink and my pastry – the one he had made. I pictured him, bent and kneading the dough, then painstakingly filling every one with yellowberry jam. Just for me. Gulping, I lifted the sweet to my mouth and took a bite, the perfect chewiness of the dough and the explosion of bright, tart jam coating my tongue.
And, goddamnit, I actually did start to cry. The dessert was just too perfect, made by those strong, clawed hands. I’d been chided by people in my life, usually men I worked with, that I was too emotional in the past. That I was too easily swayed to tears. But, I just couldn’t help it. I was feeling touched and sad and frankly, more than a little bit lovesick. And more than all of it, I was missing X, before I’d even left him.
No way. I sniffed hard, tearing another bite of the pastry off and chewing it so hard that I probably looked kind of rabid. No way was I leaving this station without trying to start something with X. I didn’t care if it didn’t go anywhere, or if he rejected me. OK, I cared about those outcomes. A lot. But I was going to do it, no matter what. Before I left this place, I was going to tell him how I felt, and I would hope that by some Christmas miracle he felt the same.
And if he didn’t?
Well, at least I’d fucking tried.