I scroll forward.
He finally stands.
Slow. Exhausted.
He gets a broom.
Sweeps up the broken mug.
Every. Single. Piece.
Carefully. Methodically.
Like he thinks if he’s gentle enough with the ruins, they won’t hurt him on the way out. Which is why he needs me.
Then he washes his hands.
Dries them on a towel.
And he starts baking.
Not for the bakery.
Not for customers.
Just... baking.
He pulls out flour, sugar, butter.
His hands move automatically.
Mixing. Kneading. Shaping.
He’s making something small.
Something sweet.
Crumble cake, maybe.
The kind you eat alone with tea when you need to feel human again.
The kind of soft, warm thing I want him feeding me in bed while I kiss the stress off his throat.
I watch him work.
Watch his shoulders slowly relax.
Watch the tension leave his jaw.
This is who he is.
Not a criminal.
Not a money launderer.
Just a man who bakes to feel safe.
A man who cleans up broken things and makes something sweet from the wreckage.
