Chapter Text
“I like your glasses.”
The man jolts a little bit, like he’s unused to being addressed directly, then he stares. Somehow at you and through you simultaneously. Green eyes continue to peer down at you, curious and hesitant. You clear your throat.
Maybe he didn’t hear you? Or he just didn’t give a shit? Ever since you moved to this godforsaken city, you’d been forced to grow more of a backbone, but at heart you still thrived when it came to having.. normal, nonthreatening conversations with people. Surprisingly not as uncommon as many would think. Not like you went out of your way to find any, though.
“I, uh..” You begin again awkwardly, not catching the way his eyes follow the movement of your hand on the counter, fingers tapping. Annoyance? Impatience? No. Nerves. “I.. have a pair like that at home. They’re nice.”
Glasses Man still just stares at you.
(This? This, right here? This is why you do not work the counter and stay toiling away back in the kitchen. Even with PEOPLE PLEASER stamped across your forehead in spirit, overall, you preferred to.. avoid any kind of discomfort that came with human interaction. Hopefully, your coworker would be back from her break, any second now, and you could retreat with a polite wave as you handed him off-)
“Thank you.”
It’s your turn to jump, eyes widening when his neutral expression seems to break, a smile peeking through the cracks. Your own lips quirk up a bit when you swear you see his face redden, just barely, not enough for most people to notice.
(You like to watch, though. Watch and listen. Read. You’re good at that. Observing. So you notice.)
“….so that’s.. just the one slice of pumpkin, then?”
He just blinks, seeming to flush a bit more, like he’d forgotten he was ordering food. When he scratches his cheek, your head tilts. His nails are short, perfectly, clinically so, too even and straight to be from biting.
“I… I.. suppose so.” But the way he pauses makes you think otherwise. Like he’s hanging there, waiting. You rock back on your heels, swaying a little, glancing back towards the kitchen with a frown when you try to remember how much longer the timer on the oven had left.
You can feel his gaze on you. His eyes are burning, but when your attention is on him again, he seems almost boyishly bashful, like he knows that you caught him looking, that you know. He pushes his glasses up by the bridge, and you raise a brow. You can tell from the size of them and the slope of his nose that he probably has to adjust them on a regular basis. A pain you’re all too familiar with.
There’s one slice left in the display case. You pride yourself on having everything be made that day, but it’s still late afternoon. It wouldn’t be wrong to give him that, but for some reason, you just… want to go the extra mile. For the sake of good customer service, of course. Not to prolong the interaction because you were intrigued or anything.
“…I.. actually have a fresh one coming out soon,” you offer, amused by the way his eyes brighten. “So… if you don’t mind waiting a little bit..”
“Okay.” He seems to stumble over his words a bit, like he realizes you’re not forcing him to. You’re just looking out. Being kind. When you don’t even know him. “I.. mean, yeah, that’s fine. Yes. I can wait. Thanks. Th.. thank you.”
It’s not like there’s a line or anything. Normally you only ever get a rush early in the morning or right before closing. You don’t usually stay past four, either, but your coworker had begged you to let her go grab late lunch/early dinner with her girlfriend, and you’d had stuff still in the oven, anyway. So it was only fair and logical.
“So you.. make everything here?”
You hum, nodding, reaching into the case, amused by his inquisitive look.
“Like… ninety-nine percent of it, yeah. The maple candies come from up north, though. Owner knows a guy.” Your expression is feigned seriousness when your eyes meet his, conspiratorial, voice dropping even lower like it’s a juicy secret you’re sharing. “Don’t tell anyone.”
A full-fledged smile blossoms across his features at that, and, hell, he even laughs. It’s soft, breathy, but something about it makes your insides twist.
“I swear on my life, I won’t.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
His brows raise a bit at that, like he’s sincerely surprised, not sure of exactly how to respond. Afraid of ruining the moment. But his shoulders straighten, boldness making shrinking lines turn.. sharper. His eyes flicker, something.. more frenzied and hungry close to the surface, his teeth flashing in a way that’s too measured to be natural. Human. Maybe it’s just a trick of the light.
(Shitty fluorescent bulbs aren’t forgiving to anyone, ever. You look pretty, though, distractingly so, with heavy eyelashes, gentle lips, hands that look far too soft for someone who’s in the line of literal fire daily. Your heart on your proverbial sleeve.)
“Oh, please do.”
Your turn to laugh. It’s not a pleasant sound, in your opinion, but he appears mesmerized by it. Wholly transfixed. How weirdly flattering. You turn your back before he can catch your blush, managing a “be right back” with a dry mouth and heavy tongue before you disappear. When you return, it’s with the promised, freshly baked goods.
(Two slices, he notices. You’re swiftly but carefully bundling them up with the other you’d set aside previously. Three in total.)
“…there ya go! Sorry about that.”
Sorry? You’re sorry? Whatever for, he isn’t sure. You charge him for one, too. Not like he asked, but something about him makes you feel, and you’d.. made him wait. His brows furrow, like he wants to protest, but your gaze is pointed, and he can see already that it would be futile to argue with you. It would be insulting, anyway. To you. Someone who seems to be so wonderfully, strangely sincere, and it’s not lost on him how the light on your hair makes it look like you have a halo. Shining, the skin around your cheekbones painted with heat-
Boy Scout’s hands fumble with his wallet, an old, beaten up leather, and when the crumpled bills are pushed towards you, he murmurs something along the lines of “keep the change, please, I insist.”
“Oh- oh. Uh, I.. um.. thank you? You really, really don’t… have to-“
Money was always good, yeah. But that wasn’t what this was about, and you didn’t want him getting the impression that you were just.. faking it for payout. It wasn’t a business transaction. The company and conversation, when this easy, effortless, was nice. The guilt in your expression is met with his gaze, unwavering, almost.. fond.
“Hard work should be rewarded, don’t you think? Too much.. passion goes unnoticed, too often. What you do is an art.”
Huh. Odd. But eloquent and true. Your face burns, and when you hand off his purchase, his fingertips brush against your knuckles, lingering far too long to be a slip up, not deliberate.
“I.. I hope it, uh.. lives up to your expectations?”
Your words lilt at the end, more nervous than questioning, and inwardly you cringe. Because who the fuck says that? Talks like that? Are you a robot? It’s just.. rare to receive genuine praise these days, and it’s making your mind.. fizzle out. Just a job. No one’s ever called it art before, been verbally appreciative like that. But.. He hadn’t even taken a bite, yet, for Christ’s sake-
Pumpkin Pie Guy seems unfazed, unaware of your inner turmoil. He looks pleased, if anything. His voice is even stronger, and it has a cadence to it that’s.. stilted but still somewhat melodic. Easy to listen to, lulling and entrancing even when it wavers, airy but full of promise.
“I’m sure it will. Stay safe. And.. ah, inspired.”
He means it.
(He should stay away and focus. That would be the right thing to do. You were charming, but, even more dangerous, you had no idea that you were, and he didn’t have the time or energy to devote to anything other than the cause. He couldn’t afford to get caught up in.. whatever it was he was already fantasizing about. Which was nothing, nothing really. He barely knew you. He was respectful. He hadn’t looked at your smile and ass earlier, thank you very much.)
And he’s gone, all too quickly. Your coworker comes through the door not long after, thanking you yet again, pausing when she notices your face. Her smug grin makes your defenses rise immediately, but your finger does nothing to stop her. She starts to ask, but you’re scurrying back to the kitchen to clean up and shut everything down, trying your best to ignore the fluttering feeling in your stomach as you went through the motions in a daze.
You hadn’t gotten his name. He didn’t get yours, either. (It was easy enough for him to find, but you didn’t know that.) Probably wouldn’t be back. He was weird, yeah, but, then again, who the hell in this town wasn’t some sort of enigma, when it all came down to it? Puzzles upon puzzles, trapped beneath skin.
And..
You most likely wouldn’t see him again. And that was fine! A simple little positive interaction you could think about later was enough for you. It was normal, went off without a hitch, and you survived another day. That was enough, wasn’t it?
(It wasn’t, though. Not for him, anyway. Or you, as a matter of fact.)
Sure enough, the pie must have been satisfactory, because he becomes a regular customer. You’re teased about it, mercilessly, and all the other people who work the front counter know well enough to come grab you and march you from your cave whenever he’s barely crossed the threshold. His office isn’t that far away from the place, and it’s an easy excuse. He’s not there an unreasonable amount, but it’s enough to where a lot of your coworkers notice his presence become more and more frequent.
(You fed the stray. Now you deal with a puppy who’s not only hungry but lovesick.)
Edward is his name. He only ever told you, but word travels fast through the grape vine. Not like it matters, anyway, because no one else calls him that.
“Lover boy is here. Again.”
You finish frosting the last cupcake before glancing up at your coworker with a barely concealed scowl. Your sigh is loud and clear.
“He has a name, Soph.” Not to mention is a grown man.
She flicks her ponytail, gum cracking, totally unamused.
“And? How would we even know if you hadn’t said anything? He only ever really talks to you. Otherwise he just.. stands there." Her distaste is palpable. "Off to the side, all.. creepily. He has a serious staring problem.”
Groaning, you set the piping bag down, wiping your hands on your apron. It’s not like she was wrong. The guy just.. was far more chatty and animated with you, and everyone knew that. He didn’t come in asking for you, not always, but it was easier for them to just.. hand him off to you from the get go.
(Because he had a crush, according to.. well. Countless people. Both employee and guest alike. Friendliness didn’t equal that. It didn’t ever stick regardless of how many times you told them that, though.)
“He isn’t creepy, Sophie, he’s just.. quiet.”
(Socially awkward. But it’s not like you were any better.)
She smirks, and you can already feel it coming.
“Mmmmmhm. But not with you. Wonder why that is?”
“Because he knows me,” you say, exasperated, halfway through the kitchen door, voice low but still firm. “I’m.. nice to him.”
The girl shrugs, inspecting her nails before giving you a light shove, the victor in this battle obvious.
“Can’t imagine why that is, either. You guys kissed yet or what? There’s money on the line here, y’know.”
People can just be friends, god damn it, but you don’t say that. The thought of them all in a circle, cheering and placing bets on your (lack of) love life has you grimacing.
You answer by flicking her, but your cheeks are engulfed in flames, and the damage is done. She’s giggling, and you can see green eyes peering over at you from behind large frames, curious and eager. Sophie has flitted off to help someone else (talk, to friends, but you don’t care, she’s allowed that, none of you get paid enough) and when you lean forward on the counter, his tongue darts out to wet his lips.
(Yeah, he did it, but it was innocuous. You’re the one who blatantly watched.)
Part of you is surprised he hasn’t made some sort of move yet. Towards.. anything. Any territory. He never asked for your number, never slid you his, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d be.. a little hurt. How long had it been? Weeks, now? Your social circle was extremely limited, in general but especially ever since you moved here. It was.. painfully hard to get close to people as an adult. Even more so when your childhood sucked. Extremely fucking difficult.
Maybe.. maybe you were just.. reading things wrong? Or something? How this could be misconstrued, you weren’t sure, but… it didn’t add up. It was always like he was restraining himself, purposefully there, putting himself in front of you, engaging but also distant. He’d be around, for awhile, talking to you, laughing with you, then not show up for a week then be back like it never happened, apologetic but with a wildness in his eyes, cracking through the quiet, and it left you.. perplexed.
(Who's chasing who?)
Busy with work. It was always work. You knew how it was. How much heart you had to put into something to make it work, to really create something beautiful that means something, that lasts.
(If you were bad about taking breaks, Edward was downright terrible. Even with the energy that seemed to buzz through him like a live wire, it was easy for you to see that he was exhausted.)
His hair is damp from the drizzle outside, the top button of his shirt undone, collar curled but free of folds. An umbrella hangs limp at his side, unused, making the state of him even more amusing. His glasses are fogging from the temperature and environment shift, coupling with the droplets on the lenses to have you itching to reach out and pluck them from his face. Wipe them down for him.
“Hey, stranger. You been sleeping?”
He clicks his tongue, head shaking, but you can see him holding back a smile.
“Have you?”
“Hey now,” you say, wagging a finger at him before tapping your temple. “I get the healthy, normal amount of anywhere from four to sixteen hours, depending on the day, I’ll have you know. The usual.”
“So.. hypocritical as ever, then?”
Normally, from anyone else, you’d take that as harsh criticism, but the lines near his eyes and lips are creased, and you can tell it’s from a place of sincere concern. Like he had any room to talk.
“I don’t know how you function. It’s.. impressive.”
“Well. Age-old methods.” His head tilts, brows raising when you continue sagely. “What is caffeine for if not to utilize, in ungodly amounts? Add all that to one solid meal for the day, then. Boom. Raring to go. Body is a temple and.. all that.”
His nose wrinkles, and you hate that you find it endearing. His chuckle is low, good-natured, and you smile in return, despite your rolling eyes.
“You here to give me hell for my life choices or get your sugar fix for the day?”
(You. He’d prefer you over anything in this building, you’re so much sweeter, but-)
“I… actually, ah…wanted to ask you if you were.. busy, later.”
It’s a silly thing to ask, really, and he knows that. He knows you. (Knows your life, your routine, your schedule, courtesy of you but also his own.. exploration. Which is fine. If he doesn't take too much time, then it's fine. He could rationalize it, justify it. You're not completely consuming his mind. He's still focused.) But it’s all for the sake of courtesy, pleasantries, keeping up appearances. Everyone had an act, a front, the part they played for the world.
With how he’s shifting his weight and avoiding your eyes, teeth working at his lower lip, you swear he’s wrestling with himself over… it. Something.
(Bad idea. This is a bad idea. Very, very awful idea. He shouldn’t, but he wants to, and wanting is such a selfish, powerful thing. He’d been doing so well. The little doses, bits and pieces of you weren’t enough, though, and so long as it was one time, it was fine. He could allow himself this once, it was justified. Deserved. Earned. Just one, real taste, then he could back off. It would be enough to sate him for awhile. Then, surely, he could truly focus. Rather than see your face in his head all the time.)
It catches you off guard, he can tell. Before he can worry about overstepping, your eyes are lighting up, sparkling, and, oh, yes, it’s going to be a problem. He can already tell.
(Too bad.)
“I.. I mean, I don’t have a life, man,” you say, voice high, belatedly realizing how pathetic and ungrateful that sounds. You didn’t want to seem overeager, but also coming across as a jackass wasn’t ideal, either. “…I meant.. I don’t have plans. And would love to.. do.. something. Pretend I said that first. Not the.. embarrassing and lonely bit. Erase that from the record.”
“You shouldn’t ever be ashamed of loneliness,” he says, suddenly, solemn and earnest, glasses glinting. “It’s.. human.”
“Wish it wasn’t, sometimes,” you reply breezily, brushing at your bangs, smile wry. “But.. I’m. Anyway. I’m free. If you are.”
He wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t, now, would he? Idiot.
“Do you drink?”
“Is that even a question?”
Just like that, plans are made, and Edward, for once, leaves empty-handed. The prospect is enough for him. He doesn’t really have any appetite that much, lately, anyway. (It just.. happens whenever he’s engrossed.) Besides… You.
He was getting you, if only for a moment.