The gentle pressure of his massive hands.
The way he hums under his breath.
Unconscious. Unguarded.
Juliet’s right.
We don’t have one like him.
Our house needs his energy.
His warmth. His quiet strength.
The way he makes something beautiful out of nothing but flour and time.
I can already picture him in our kitchen.
Teaching Juliet to braid dough.
Laughing at Callum’s terrible jokes.
Spotting for Orion at the gym.
Listening to Elliot talk philosophy while he kneads bread.
He’d fit.
The cadence of his voice is relaxing. I can imagine him singing as I play the guitar and Juliet melting into a puddle.
He asks if I have family nearby. I say “Sort of.”
He nods like he understands.
He doesn’t ask many questions.
He doesn’t flirt.
He doesn’t pry.
He just teaches.
By the time I refill the sugar canister, I’m starting to wonder if Juliet’s wrong.
Because if I didn’t know better?
I’d say Vitaly Volkov is just a baker.
A lonely one.
The front door swings open hard enough to rattle the tiny bell above it.
I don’t look up at first. Just assume it’s a late customer or someone desperate for coffee.
But then the air changes.
It goes... flat. Heavy.
Like the pressure drop before a storm.
