Trope: Small business slow burn | Soft crushes | One-sided (but not really)
Pairing: Harua (the baker) × Jo (the customer who never orders the same thing twice)
Mood: Cozy, shy, meaningful silences and little rituals that say what words don't

☀️ Scene I: First Light

Harua opens the bakery at 5:00 a.m.
By 6:00, the window fogs with the warmth of rising bread.

And at 7:12—Jo walks in.

Every morning.

He doesn't talk much. Just points, sometimes nods. Never orders the same pastry twice.

Harua watches the way Jo lingers by the window after paying.
The way his fingers always hover just slightly over the countertop before taking the bag.
The way he always leaves with a "Thanks." Never louder than necessary.

But the way he says it?

Soft. Like a secret he keeps meaning to spill.

🧁 Scene II: Crumbs and Clues

Harua starts leaving a tiny note in the bag.
At first, it's just doodles: a smiley face. A little heart. A loaf with legs.

Then, one day:

"Try the brioche next. I think you'd like it."

Jo smiles at it. Actually smiles.

The next day? He tries the brioche.
And leaves a note on a napkin in return:

"You were right. I hated how right you were."

🍯 Scene III: A Quiet Pattern

They don't speak much in person.

But notes begin to pass daily—back and forth.
On receipts. In pastry bags. Once, even scribbled on the back of a sugar packet.

Jo's handwriting is neat. Direct.

Harua's starts messy, then steadies. Like he's learning how to talk again.

Eventually:

Jo: "Why do you keep recommending the ones I don't pick?"
Harua: "Because I want you to come back and try again."
Jo: "I would've come back anyway."

🌧️ Scene IV: The Day He Doesn't Come

Harua notices right away.

7:12 passes.
Then 7:30.
Then closing.

The window stays clear.

No Jo. No note.

Harua closes early.

Leaves a scone on the ledge just in case.

🌤️ Scene V: The Return

The next morning, Jo walks in—damp from the rain, apology in his eyes.

"Had a fever. Couldn't move. I missed... this."

Harua's already holding the scone he saved.

"Still warm."

Jo's eyes soften.

"You remembered."

Harua shrugs. Tries not to blush.

"I remember a lot of things."

Pause.

"Like how you like your coffee with one sugar and a sip of staring at the floor before speaking."

Jo lets out a quiet laugh.

"You've been watching me?"

"You've been writing me."

Jo bites into the scone, sighs like it's the best thing he's ever tasted, and says:

"I'm done guessing what I want."

He looks Harua in the eye, soft and steady.

"Can I try you next?"

🥣 Flour First Date

It wasn't officially called a date.

Harua just said,

"I'm testing a new recipe. Thought you might... want to try it with me."

Jo said yes too fast.

They bake together in the soft hush of late afternoon. The bakery's closed, but the ovens still hum with warmth.

Jo rolls dough. Badly.
Harua tries not to laugh.

"That's not a rectangle," Harua teases.

"It's abstract," Jo replies, smug. "Pastry is art."

Harua flicks flour at him. Jo gasps—dramatically.

"You just assaulted a customer."

"You're not a customer anymore."

Jo goes quiet. Not a pause—just... still.

"Yeah?" he says softly.

"Yeah," Harua repeats.

Jo dusts flour from Harua's cheek. Leaves his hand there a second too long. Doesn't apologize.

And Harua kisses him in the middle of the prep counter, with dough on their hands and sugar on their sleeves.

💬 Line written on a parchment scrap later that night:

"Your laugh was better than the scones."
(Underlined twice)

🧺 Future Scene: Pocket Notes

Weeks later, Harua finds the first one tucked into his apron pocket after closing.

Folded into a tiny triangle. Smells faintly like cinnamon.

"You looked tired today. But your eyes still smiled when you gave that kid a free cookie. I liked that."

Next week:

"I dreamt of peach tarts. Woke up wanting your hands on mine again."

Next:

"You hum when you're concentrating. It's the best part of my morning."

Eventually:

"I'm writing these because I can't always say it. But I'm always thinking it."

Harua finds himself checking his pocket without thinking.

Sometimes, there's nothing there.

Sometimes, there's everything.

💬 Final Line:

One morning, the note simply reads:

"You already know. But I love you anyway."

And Harua doesn't need to write anything back.
He never needed to.
He just turns around, flour-dusted and smiling—
and kisses the writer behind the counter.