you're too young & eager to love

Bakery AU! This is so cute and fun and how nice is it to write something that doesn't require pressure?

Thanks to my Muffinpants for letting me join in her madness.

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Roman’s hair is sweat-slicked and pulled up into a bun - it’s the type of hairstyle that Lene knows he adopts with an attitude of apathy that is too forced to be genuine. Lene smirks a bit, picturing him in front of a mirror, adjusting the stray strands that fall against the sides of his long face, trying to capture what he imagines effortlessness looks like. They catch his eye and he grins, bypassing the counter and Ita’s expectant face to stalk towards their corner. In typical Roman fashion, he ignores Lene’s paperwork and in-work-mode expression, standing so close that his crotch is nearly eye-level. Lene knows that’s intentional.

“You smell like the gym.”

“You’re very observant on this fine Tuesday morning.”

“I meant you stink. Fucking bad.”

As if reveling in the effect, Roman lifts his arms and stretches. He’s wearing grey sweatpants that dip across his stomach, and his sleeveless shirt lifts enough to show his hard-worked, finely etched abdomen and the cut of his hipbones. “Stop acting like you’re unimpressed. This body takes hours of dedication. Hours.”

Lene’s eyes roll. They’re about to say something or even jab him with an elbow and demand a refill on their coffee, but the door’s censor twangs its familiar chime, interrupting the banter before it can really begin.

“Saved by the bell,” Roman quips, heading back to the counter where he meets Radomir and Augusta.

Augusta looks flushed in running pants and a slim tank-top, but her dark hair is still neatly held in its French braid and there’s barely a sheen of sweat on her. She’s already transitioning into her more formal professional self, scanning the shop for any signs of disarray or problem spots to report back to Harrow while the men nod at each other with an easy familiarity. Radomir is just as sweat-stained as Roman, but he’s all bulk and force where Roman is lean, carved marble.

When they approach the counter, Ita catches some talk about weight lifting and sets between the men. They’re engaged with one another while Augusta stands to Rad’s left, but there’s a pivot to their stances that Ita thinks says more than they realize – the way Rad is a half-step behind, the subtle lean of Augusta’s hip towards the man’s mountainous form. Ita smiles when they finally turn to her and knows it’s too tight, but the good morning she chirps at them still manages to be cheerful.

“Soy Tazo Chai Tea Latte,” Augusta orders without looking up from her phone. “Medium. He’ll have a coffee. Black. No sugar. What size?”

“Small,” Rad answers.

“And for you?” Ita asks Roman, her fingers hovering over the cash register.

“Same as him.”

None of them say please or thank you, but Augusta slides her Platinum American Express across the counter.

Ita hesitates, trying for another smile. “You really don’t have to pay, Miss Vries.”

“Mrs. Reinhardt,” Augusta corrects with a touch of annoyance creeping into her voice. She flashes her left hand where a rock of a wedding ring burns against her finger. “You must be thinking of my brother. And I’d like to pay. As a principle.”

“Oh, um, right. Yes. Of course. Sorry, I forgot.” Ita gives a little shake of her head, sliding the other woman’s card in the machine.

“Can’t imagine why,” Roman murmurs, and Rad turns his head to hide his grin.






“They all work out together?” Eda asks later, helping Ita wipe down the counters. It’s the mid-afternoon lull, so the two clean to keep themselves busy.

“Apparently. I had never seen them come in together before.”

“What does Augusta look like outside of pencil skirts and silk?”

Ita lifts a narrow shoulder in a shrug. She doesn’t like to gossip, but Eda has a sweetness about her that’s difficult to ignore. Some of the workers distrust her, and Ita isn’t naïve – she’s seen how Sunniva and Eda talk – but Ita sometimes longs for the easy female comradery she sees between others. “Pretty. But she’s not the type of woman who looks like herself in casual clothes. She’s so …”

“Severe?” Eda offers.

“Do you think she’s that serious when she fucks?” Palmer interjects. Ita hadn’t heard him approach, but she should have guessed given the time – Sunniva’s shift is about to end, and Palmer always seems to arrive around that time.

Eda laughs, but Ita blushes. “I don’t like to think about it,” she says, and she means it.

“Ask Rad,” Palmer suggests without any slyness, and Ita chews on the bottom of her lip, wiping an already clean counter. Radomir has never been rude to her, not in the blunt way Augusta has, and he’s never disregarded her in same cold manner as Augusta either, but there’s something about him that unnerves her all the same. Ita doesn’t want to think about how the feeling amplifies whenever she sees Augusta touch Radomir’s arm, when he idly brushes a chunk of the woman’s hair from her neck with all the easy entitlement of intimacy, or how much stronger it might be when they’re alone and less restrained.

Ita would rather not go to bed imagining their particular forms of depravity, but Palmer might, if his grin is any inclination.

“Palmer!” Eda snaps her towel at his leg disapprovingly, echoing Ita’s unspoken sentiments. “She’s a married woman. That counts for something to some people, you know.”

Palmer’s grin is wolfish, and he catches Eda’s towel easily when she tries to snap it at him a second time. He pulls her forward until he can wrap an arm around her tiny waist and speaks against her temple. “Ever the romantic, aren’t you?”

Eda lets him tease for a moment longer before wiggling out of his grasp.

She bumps Ita’s shoulder good-naturedly when making her retreat, curving towards Sunniva’s office. “Careful with this one,” she sing-songs over her shoulder. “He can’t be trusted.”





Kim is mixing batter for a new batch of White Chocolate Blueberry Oat Cookies in the kitchen when Sunniva sticks her head through the door to check in a final time before leaving. She can hear Palmer arguing about the upcoming Red Sox game with that construction worker Ita is clearly fond of, so she’s in a hurry to get going and is grateful Kim is never demanding.

Kim raises her eyes, her dark hair caught in a knot at the nape of her neck, and wipes her hands on her apron. “We’re almost out of whole milk.”

This is usually how Kim interacts; she disregards niceties and generalities, heading straight to the point, hence Sun’s appreciation. “I’ll have Roman pick up some on his way in for tonight to hold us over and adjust the order for Calder next week. That all?”

“Do people really eat these?” Kim glances to the batter pointedly while pouring in a cup of oats.

“One of our best sellers. Why, you don’t like them?”

“Too sweet.”

“Some people like their sugar.”

“Some people are morons,” Kim suggests, and Sun laughs.

She’s about to linger, to seize the opportunity to exchange a few more words with her typically aloof baker, but she hears Palmer’s voice pitch to a tone he usually reserves for political rants and ducks back out the door, one hand waving a quick goodbye.