Archive of Our Own

The first time Pac walked into the bakery, he’d been in a bit of a rush. It probably wasn’t the best idea for him to stop for breakfast when he was already late for work, but Mike could keep the garage running for a few minutes by himself. Besides, the shop he ducked into was only a few blocks down, and it was too small to be incredibly packed.

It was still dark outside, but the interior gave off warm, golden light that was reminiscent of a rising sun. Pac’s entrance was announced by the soft ringing of bells. He was pleased to find it was expectedly empty. The smell of fresh bread rolled over him in waves. It wasn’t terribly spacious inside – enough room for window displays, two tiny tables, and a countertop. There was a door that led to the back, presumably where the kitchen was situated.

No one was behind the counter, so he took the opportunity to browse the options. Honestly, he was impressed by the sheer amount there was to choose from. Everything was displayed in neat rows with tiny labels to describe their main ingredients, and it was all mouth-wateringly delicious. Faint classical music strummed over the speakers. 

Pac’s eyes eventually led to a chocolate croissant – nothing fancy, but he didn’t need something intricate to satisfy his stomach. He straightened up to check for a worker, and startled at the sight of a figure in the doorway to the kitchen.

The man waiting there was tall, a good few inches above Pac. He was bald, with a slight stubble along his jawline. His eyebrows were raised, as if he were surprised to encounter a customer. Neither had seemed to have noticed the other’s approach.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in,” he said, and his voice was so deep that it ricocheted off the boundaries of Pac’s skull. He stepped up to the register and leaned against the counter naturally. He must’ve been the baker. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. I’m not used to people coming in this early.”

The man smiled, and it was over for Pac. He short-circuited. It was far too early in the morning to be subjected to such an overwhelming interaction. All comprehension of the passage of time washed away, replaced by a numbness in every single one of his limbs. Pac had to pinch himself to assure this wasn’t a figment of his imagination – something born of multiple sleepless nights. 

“Yes,” Pac choked out, and he winced at himself. Suddenly, he couldn’t remember if he had brushed his hair that morning. Were the bags under his eyes noticeable? He hoped not, but he hadn’t been able to check during his mad rush out the door. “Yeah, this is my first time in this bakery. Never been here. I would’ve remembered.”

“Well, I’m happy you’ve stopped by,” the man hummed. His eyes were dark, and they sparkled with amusement. “Do you have something in mind?”

He did. He had many things in mind. Mostly thoughts about how nice this man’s sturdy torso looked in an apron, and the dusting of flour on his cheeks. Pac felt his stomach flip – whether it was caused by hunger or another thing completely, he couldn’t tell. Either way, it had stolen his words, and he was only able to nod. 

“Alright, what were you wanting then?”

Pac bit his cheek hard to hold back the flirtatious response that instinctively jumped to the tip of his tongue. The man was talking about pastries, and Pac shouldn’t be imagining anything different. He didn’t know the guy, and it was far too early in the morning to trust himself to not come off as creepy. Pac opened his mouth to speak, but the other tilted his head and it was so cute that he failed again. 

“Would you maybe want a suggestion,” the man offered. Pac was about to correct him, to say that he had already decided on something, until he realized he had just been presented with an excuse to linger. He nodded, and the baker moved to join him by the treats. “Personally, I’m a fan of the lemon tarts. Those are fresh — I just finished making them. The snickerdoodles are also pretty good. Should keep you warm while there’s still that early-morning chill.”

Pac listened to him, eyes stuck on his face, then his hands. They were callused, and covered in flour. Very big and strong, especially as gloves were slipped on to be sanitary. Pac admired his features way more than a man running late to work should. The food was extremely appetizing, able to hold its own even without descriptions, but the guy who made them was the real treat. He was so entranced that he missed it when the baker asked him a question. “Hm? Sorry, what was that?”

“I was wondering where you’re coming from. I wasn’t sure if you lived in this area or something,” he asked. “You don’t have to tell me, of course. I’m just curious.”

Pac blinked, not expecting a personal question. Although, he certainly didn’t mind the cute baker taking an interest in him. He tripped over himself to answer, “Ah, yes! I work nearby at the auto shop. I missed the bus, so I’m walking.”

“Okay, yeah, I think I know what place you’re talking about,” the man said. He leaned against the glass, resting his chin in his palm. Pac straightened up significantly under the weight of the stare. “You’re a mechanic then?”

“Mhm, that’s right,” Pac chuckled sheepishly. He felt severely out of his element. He hadn’t been expecting to run into someone who so perfectly embodied his taste in men, or else he would have prepared a few extra lines. There was nothing waiting in his back pocket but anxiety and stress. “Why do you ask?”

“No real reason,” the baker shrugged. His smile softened to something wistful and immensely fond. “My son is interested in machines and engineering. Wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted to be a mechanic when he grows up.”

Oh. His son.  

Pac tried to ignore the way his heart sank a little in his chest. He had to admit that he wasn’t exactly surprised. The man in front of him checked every objective box when it came to catching someone’s eye. Served Pac right for allowing his hopes to get up when he was still barely awake. He forced himself to remain neutral and smile a bit wider. “That’s cool!”

“Yeah,” the other sighed. “Anyway, did one of these sound good?”

“Uh, yes,” Pac said quickly, eyes flitting down out of necessity. “Could I have a chocolate croissant please?”

They carried their interaction over to the register, and it was painfully quiet. He wished another customer would come in to distract from it, but there was little-to-no chance of that happening. The streets were always empty this early. The baker began to whistle a small tune while he packed the croissant into a little bag. Pac shifted from foot to foot, confused as to why the whole process was taking him so long. 

Eventually, the bag was handed to him, and he tried not to scream when the baker’s hand brushed against his. “Alrighty! Should be good to go. I added a little something to keep you warm on your walk. Have a good day!”

The baker tossed him a wink, and Pac stammered a farewell. He rushed back outside and down the sidewalk about a block before he actually processed what was said. What did the other man mean by something to keep him warm?

He thought about it as he reached into the bag for his breakfast, startling when he noticed there was more than what he’d ordered there. At the bottom, a tiny container of snickerdoodles waited for him. On top of that was his receipt with a message scribbled in the margins. He pulled it out, noticing that the receipt said nothing about paying for snickerdoodles, and stopped beneath a street lamp to read it properly. 

Hope to see you back soon! Stay warm!

-Fit

There was a winky face doodled next to it. Pac nearly dropped his food. 

Fit — was that the man’s name?

A warmth festered beneath his lungs, scorched his ribs, and started a fire in his cheeks. He wasn’t sure this was what the baker meant, but he didn’t feel even the slightest chill in the time it took him to reach the garage. Not even when Mike berated him for being late. Not even when the first few customers came in. And especially not when it was time to leave and he saw the bakery out of the window of the passing bus.

Okay, maybe Pac was a little stupid for allowing himself to oversleep again. He couldn’t help it, though. Every time he imagined getting out of bed, he saw that cute baker behind his eyes and he had to shove his face back into the cool fabric of his pillow. A week had passed since his last encounter with the man, and he finally had enough of being hopeless and alone in his room.

During that still-dark morning, when he definitely had other things he needed to do, Pac found himself standing in front of the bakery. He had to take deep breaths to regulate his heart rate. Once that was done, he put a hand on the doorknob. Mike was blowing up his phone asking where he was, but he muted it, and walked into the shop anyway. The cute baker — Fit — was behind the counter this time, facing away from the door.

“Welcome in! Give me just a second and— oh!” Fit stopped as soon as he glanced over his shoulder. He put down whatever he was working on and stepped over to the counter. “It’s you!”

“It’s me,” Pac confirmed, like an idiot. He hesitated by the entrance, his legs reduced to jelly. Being so far away made the conversation slightly awkward. Pac forced himself forward, half-paralyzed by the way the other man watched him. “Um, I appreciated the food from last time. It was really good.”

“You liked it? Awesome,” the baker laughed, and it was a beautiful sound. “You off to work again today?”

“Yes, right, work, of course,” Pac exhaled quickly, not really stringing together any sort of response. Fuck, maybe this really was a bad idea. He was going to make a fool of himself if he didn’t wrap this up quickly. “Actually, I’m late for that. For work, I mean.”

Fit straightened. He checked his watch, and frowned. “This is the same time as last week. Shit— Did I make you late the other day?”

“Make me late?” Pac shook his head violently. “No, no! I did that on my own.”

“Is that why you rushed out? I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have asked you a bunch of questions if I’d known.” Fit clicked his tongue. “I won’t keep you. Did you want a chocolate croissant again?”

“Yes, but,” Pac said. Fit was already moving, wiping his hands with a towel and opening up the display case. This time, Pac didn’t miss the way he also snagged more snickerdoodles. “You don’t have to do that. Give them away for free, I mean. I can pay.”

“I’m sure you can.” The baker looked up at him, an eyebrow raised and a smile on his face. Then, as if he hadn’t heard Pac at all, he resumed wrapping up the pastries. The mechanic couldn’t find the nerves necessary to insist, and the receipt came back without the cookies listed again.  

“Thank you,” was what he ended up muttering instead. Fit grinned, apparently very happy with himself. Pac didn’t put away his wallet just yet. He slipped a five dollar bill out and threw it on the counter. Before the baker could protest, Pac backed up several feet. “I’ll be going now! Have a good day!”

With a wave from Fit, he was gone.

And with his pathetic inability to stop being delusional, he was back the following week. Pac was earlier this morning — enough that he could’ve caught the bus easily if he wanted to. Mike had been fairly confused watching him walk out of the house alone, but he couldn’t exactly follow while he was still in his pajamas. Pac planned on telling him about his pathetic crush eventually, because his friend knew everything about him, but today he had other matters to attend to.

The importance of those matters was perpetuated by the sight of Fit wiping down tables when he entered. The baker had his sleeves rolled halfway up his arm, his muscles visible as he made circular motions against the surface. Pac tried his best to enter slowly to not disturb him, but inevitably the bells betrayed his cause. 

Fit paused and smiled up at him, like he’d known exactly who would be visiting. Maybe he did. “Look who it is. The mechanic. You’re early.”

“Were you counting? I didn’t realize I left such an impression,” Pac mused, surprised that he could muster up any confidence at all. He wouldn’t complain. Knowing his weak resolve when it came to those lovely brown eyes, it wouldn’t last long.

“Maybe, maybe,” Fit said, and his tone was low enough that Pac had to repress a shiver. “You’re a hard guy to forget.”

“Right, yes, of course. You too,” the mechanic fumbled. As fast as it had come, any capability he might’ve previously possessed was lost. If it were later in the day, he could recover and find his footing again, but he was out of luck now. He groaned at his own stupidity, “I’m sorry, Fit. I am not a morning person.”

The baker stood at his full height, a happy shine in his eyes. It served as ideal fuel for the constant flush of Pac’s cheeks. “Bold of you to call me by name when I don’t even know yours.”

“Huh? Oh! Oh, I’m sorry,” Pac rushed. “I did it without thinking. I’ll stop.”

“What?” Fit frowned. “No, no, that’s not— I mean, I don’t know your name. You can call me Fit as much as you want. Please do.”

The mechanic’s heart squeezed in his chest. “You want to know my name?”

“You want to give it to me?”

Yes, very much so, Pac thought, but he wasn’t sure if he would be able to handle hearing it out loud. He folded his arms over his chest just to dig his nails into his sleeve more efficiently. “My name is Pac.”

“Pac,” Fit repeated immediately, and he expected he would. It shot out of his mouth like a poisoned arrow, ready to flow through Pac’s bloodstream and infest his veins. He spoke it like he was trying to commit it to the deepest recesses of his memory. Like it was going to be sticking there for a long time. Like it belonged there. Fit softened around the edges, unwinding from whatever had been troubling him, and commented, “That’s fun. Both of our names have three letters.”

“They do,” Pac said. “They fit together nicely.”

Fit’s eyes crinkled and he laughed. It was the kind of quiet beauty that deserved to be immortalized in a painting or a picture. In another world, with a different version of himself, maybe Pac would’ve been able to achieve just that. Maybe their roles would be reversed — he would be the artisan, and Fit the art. It was horrifically poetic for a thought that would never see the light of day. 

“Alright, I regret giving you my name now,” the baker tutted. 

“Aw, but Fit! Your name is so good for jokes,” Pac dragged his feet over, sighing. He resented his decision to get closer pretty quickly. With Fit being in the midst of tidying up, there was no counter to keep them separated. He was able to look up at Fit and calculate exactly how much energy it would take to bridge the remaining gap. Pac considered these thoughts to be perfect indicators for where he should stop being imaginative. 

Fit didn’t seem to mind their proximity, or the change from their usual positions. He rocked back and forth on his heels, arms crossed to match Pac’s resting pose. It was too friendly of a stance in the mechanic’s opinion. Fit barely knew him. He should be more insistent on keeping it professional. But then, Pac wasn’t doing that, was he? He was practically begging this total stranger to take an interest in him. 

He was always like this — obsessive and way-too invested in relationships once he saw a spark of potential. That was how he’d become friends with Mike. A kid with broken glasses offered him a chance at a companionship and twenty years later they were still together. Pac didn’t mean to latch onto some random baker, but if Fit was allowing it, he wasn’t going to argue. He reasoned that, at the very least, he’d gain a good friend out of these exchanges.

“Okay, jokester,” Fit hissed, a good natured gleam to him despite his words. “Are you gonna buy something before you’re late for work, or are you just here to be a nuisance.”

“Hard choice,” Pac said. “Are the chocolate croissants ready?”

“For you? Always,” Fit assured. He stepped back and towards the display case. The baker was quick to wash his hands and pull out the desired pastries. “I’m going to give you cookies, but if you pull any stunts like last time, you’re banned from my building.”

Pac’s eyes widened. “Huh? What? Banned for paying?”

“For betraying my good will. Don’t try to fight it. My bakery, my rules.” Fit reached in and grabbed a handful of the bite-sized snickerdoodles. Pac hated how his stomach grumbled at the smell of cinnamon. “Here.”

The mechanic slid over the money for the part he was allowed to pay for, and took his food. He lingered, because he was embarrassingly early for his job. The garage wouldn’t be open yet, and he’d given Mike the key. “Thank you, Fit.”

“Of course, Pac,” the baker huffed, very proud of himself. Pac would let him be for now, but eventually he’d find a way to add weight to his wallet. Mike didn’t raise him to be a cheapskate, even if they both had notoriously sticky fingers. He was pulled from his scheming by Fit, “You busy at the auto shop nowadays?”

“Not really,” was Pac’s answer. “There is a steady flow of work, but there are enough of us that it goes quickly.”

“And your boss is okay with how often you’re late?” Fit asked. Pac rolled his eyes. 

“I cannot be mad at myself when it’s for something so tasty.” He left out the part where his co-owner, Mike, absolutely could. Fit raised an eyebrow, cheeks growing pink at the compliment.

“Well, that’s good,” the baker replied. “As long as I know you won’t be fired, I don’t feel so bad about taking up your mornings.”

“Yeah, don’t worry,” the mechanic insisted. He fidgeted with the bag in his hand, a bit eager to sit down at his workbench and eat the contents. He took a deep breath. “I better go. But I will see you next week?”

“Next week?” Fit’s smile widened. “Yeah, for sure. I’ll see you then.”

Pac made it a bit of a habit to miss the bus. Mike stopped frantically texting him after he realized the exact purpose of his friend’s weekly bakery visits. Pac promised to fork over a couple of cookies in exchange for leaving him alone – because whenever he would enter, without fail, Fit would manage to force him to take more food than intended. 

He couldn’t understand why someone would do that, but he conveniently forgot how to speak around the baker, so he never got the chance to ask. At least the snacks were wonderful. The chocolate croissant had quickly become a favorite of his, and the cookies were able to be eaten throughout the work day. 

The only problem with his early morning visits was the lack of time. Mike might be okay with him being ten minutes late, but any longer and it would hold up the flow of traffic. Pac wasn’t able to delve into in-depth conversations with the baker, or browse the options for too long. 

It was this line of thinking that sent Pac spiraling trying to find a time after work that would be best to visit. He googled the business’ closing time, and was pleased to find it was six-o-clock in the evening. He had plenty of time to get there between then and when he wasn’t needed at the garage anymore. Unfortunately, Pac was a bit of an overthinker, and stepping outside of his routine caused a lot of that. 

The bakery felt forbidden in the daylight. He couldn’t see through the windows, couldn’t double check that Fit was even working, and he ended up lingering outside for several minutes. In the midst of all his debating, he had forgotten to consider that the bakery wasn’t always empty. He entered at exactly four in the afternoon and immediately regretted it. 

The chiming of the doorbells couldn’t even be heard over the clamoring of people that had stuffed themselves into the tiny space. Pac had to stand on his toes to peak at the counter over their heads. There were two people running around the kitchen and register — one of them being Fit, and the other being a shorter boy that Pac couldn’t really see. 

It was nice to catch a glimpse of the man he’d been meaning to chat with, but it was clear that there wouldn’t be enough time to hold a conversation now either. His stomach did grumble a little in disappointment, and he had to assure himself that he could always come back in the morning. 

He was about to turn around and leave when the baker glanced over. Fit made direct eye contact with Pac, and he lit up. The polite smile on his face shifted into something genuinely excited. Something beautiful. Something honest. Something blinding. And it was because of him.  

The sight of it frightened Pac so severely that he had to duck back beneath the crowd. His cheeks burned, and he was overwhelmed with the urge to run. Pac had to will his heart to calm in his chest, or else it might beat itself to death. Admittedly, his tiny crush on the baker was getting out of hand. The door jingled and Pac was shoved further inside, his escape blocked. He had no choice but to wait out the line.

Like the first time he’d met Fit, he worried over his looks. He had come straight from the garage, and was probably grungy. His white shirt had oil stains on it, which meant his skin presumably did too. Pac was stupid for not checking himself in the mirror earlier, but he was a little blind to anything that wasn’t his immense giddiness at the thought of speaking to Fit today. At least his hands were clean — he had that much foresight. 

It took a painful ten minutes for him to get up to the counter, and he agonized over every second. Fit, on the other side of the scale, seemed absolutely delighted. The boy he’d seen before was standing next to him, a mop of black hair atop his head and large eyes boring holes into Pac. He couldn’t have been more than eight, but he wore an apron just like the baker’s, complete with the store’s tiny mustache logo. Without a word, he narrowed his eyes and left for the kitchen.

“Pac,” Fit greeted. “What a surprise! I didn’t know you were capable of being here at a reasonable hour.”

“Yes, yeah, I do exist outside of the morning,” Pac replied, but it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself. Maybe he was. He didn’t feel entirely corporeal at the moment. Fit laughed all the same. It gave him the strength he needed to keep going, “I was trying to come when I wasn’t going to be rushed, but I think I messed up.”

“Ah, you’re right,” Fit sighed. “What a shame. The bakery always gets crazy in the middle of the day. Did you just get out of work?”

“Can you tell? I didn’t check if I was clean before coming in. That’s so embarrassing,” Pac groaned. “Please pretend like you don’t see anything.”

Fit’s eyes softened curiously. He held up a hand and stepped over to a sink against the wall. He removed a towel from a rack nearby and wet it slightly. He squeezed it out, and returned to the counter. “Here,” Fit said. “Just stay still.”

Pac froze as the baker reached across the counter and wiped the damp cloth against his cheek. The touch sent electricity racing down his spine. It was addicting, dangerous. Fit pulled back after a moment, and the towel was black from oil. Pac’s face was on fire, tongue numb and limbs weak. He had to put a hand against the counter to stay upright. 

“There we go,” Fit declared. “Now you’re pristine and perfect.”

“Perfect,” Pac echoed quietly, not meaning for it to leave his lips. 

The baker caught it anyway, quietly adding, “Not that you didn’t look perfect a second ago, of course. You know what I mean.”

No, Pac really didn’t. Currently, he was incapable of knowing anything, actually. He was way too busy replaying the feeling of Fit’s hand against his skin. The only other thought that passed through his mind was the devastating idea that he should come here covered in oil more often, which he quickly shut down. He forced himself to find something, anything else, and accidentally blurted, “Your towel is dirty.”

“Uh, yeah? I’ll wash it later, no biggie.” Fit raised an eyebrow, snorting at him. The towel was folded and tossed neatly over his shoulder. “Not to sound like I’m rushing you, but did you want something?”

“Did I want something?” Pac floundered, a little unsure of the answer. He wanted to see Fit, and that goal had been achieved. It didn’t erase the growing line behind him. “Maybe?”

“Maybe,” Fit repeated, thoroughly amused. “I don’t have any pastries called maybe, but I could offer you a fresh blueberry muffin?”

“Yes, please,” Pac agreed quickly. He didn’t need to think about it. He was pretty sure Fit was incapable of baking a dessert he didn’t like, so it didn’t matter what was in the bag he was handed. He couldn’t even care about the price, brain too fried to dedicate a single neuron to something like that. “Thank you, Fit.”

“No problem,” Fit hummed. His eyes shifted down to the register, and he seemed to be choosing his next words carefully, “You know, if you ever wanted to come in here again and avoid the crowds… closing is pretty empty. Usually leaves me with a lot of freetime to sit around and do nothing.”

Pac perked up, eyes widening. The baker refused to meet his gaze, but he didn’t care. He was floating on cloud nine. Fit wanted him to come back. Fit wanted him to come back when there was no one around. Fit wanted him to come back so they could chat alone. Oh fuck, Pac was going to pass out. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Pac exhaled sharply. He surprised himself with how normal it sounded. With a small nod, he took his muffin and left. The door jingled to signify his departure, and the line shuffled up to fill the gap where he’d been. 

Pac couldn’t feel the warmth of the sun over his accelerated heartbeat. The mechanic could only summon enough mental energy to savor the first bite of his muffin. He began his walk home, making it a block before he heard someone call him. 

He turned around and frowned at the sight of the boy from earlier running after him. The kid stopped a few feet away, panting for breath. Pac didn’t know what to make of it. “Sorry, were you shouting for me?” 

“Yes,” the boy hissed through clenched teeth, visibly exhausted from the run. “My dad wanted you to have these! He says you forgot to take them with you.”

Pac gaped as the child held up a small bag of cookies. Instantly, he pieced together why there had been someone so young behind the bakery’s counter to begin with – this was Fit’s son. Pac tried to find the resemblance in him, but it wasn’t really there. The boy could’ve been adopted, although that perpetuated his idea of Fit having a partner, since people didn’t usually adopt kids while single.

God, he was shitty, wasn’t he? Trying to make moves on someone’s husband. Pac had thought a couple of times that Fit might’ve been flirting back with him, or at least playing along, but it was possible he had perceived it incorrectly. Fuck, he really needed to find a way to ask if Fit was married. Mike would never let him live it down if Pac found out too late that he was a homewrecker.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” The boy’s tone was brimming with a tease, but the older man was too distracted to hear him. He insisted again, “Take the cookies.”

“Oh,” Pac stammered. He did as he was told, and the boy made a show of lowering his arm like he’d been holding it up for a thousand years. “Yeah, awesome, thanks. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Ramón,” the kid said without hesitating. He gave a wide grin. There was a little gap between his front teeth. It was sweet. Reminded him of Richas, though Ramón was clearly older.

“I see,” Pac hummed. “I’m Pac. It’s nice to meet you.”

“I know your name,” Ramón said. “Dad told me. He tells me a lot about you.”

“Huh?” Pac felt like his brain was going to melt inside his skull. “He does? What does he say?”

“He told me you were a mechanic. You work with cars and stuff,” the boy explained. “I think that’s cool. I wanna be like you when I grow up.”

“Oh,” Pac said, because there weren’t words to describe how adorable he found that. Not even his own kid took this much interest in his work. “Well, if you ever have some free time, stop by the garage. It’s the first one if you keep going down this sidewalk. In exchange for bringing me these cookies, I’ll let you take whatever you want from the scrap pile.”

That got Ramón’s attention. He jumped up and down, a sudden ball of energy. His smile stretched from ear to ear and he laughed loudly. Pac noticed that, when he was this happy, he looked exactly like his father. The boy whooped, “Dad was right! You are amazing!”

Pac froze for the fiftieth time that day, unable to speak even as Ramón bid him farewell and ran back to the bakery. He was left alone, standing like an idiot in the middle of the sidewalk with a half-eaten blueberry muffin and a bag of snickerdoodles for his troubles. 

The sun hung low on the horizon the next time Pac heard the door's chiming bells, nearly a week and a half later. The streets bustled with people clamoring to get home, but he had no such thoughts. He had already spotted Fit through the window, and in turn, Fit had spotted him. He didn’t have the usual thoughts of escape with those brown eyes following his every movement. 

“There’s the man of the hour,” Fit said, his voice bouncing off the walls of his empty bakery. “I was worried you got sick of chocolate croissants.”

Pac appreciated how quickly Fit pulled him into a conversation. He didn’t like the silence — it allowed him to overthink. He let the door shut fully behind him. The space separating him from the counter felt weirdly intimate to cross, so he took it slowly.

“Never,” he said. “Your food is too good, Fit. I think I will dream about eating it for the rest of my life.”

“Shucks, you’re too much,” the baker laughed, cheeks reddening at the compliment. “I’m not planning on packing up shop anytime soon, so you don’t have to keep them as dreams.”

“Ah, but Fit! That’s what they are,” Pac went on. Letting himself be a little more dramatic, he put his hand against his forehead and visibly swooned. “They are dreams that follow me around even when I am awake. My life would not be whole without your cooking.”

Fit’s head rolled back with laughter, and Pac stopped his theatrics to watch him. The dimples in his cheek were probably straining from how hard he was smiling. Eventually, it tapered off, and he sighed, “I’ve missed you these past few mornings. You haven’t come by.”

“Yeah, I have been taking time off work,” Pac admitted. Late nights next to Richarlyson’s bed, and worrying over temperatures had worn him out. “My son was sick, and I was the only one who could stay home with him.”

Fit blinked, and for the first time since Pac had known him, he seemed to hesitate. His smile didn’t drop, but it lost its shine by an inch. “Huh… I didn’t realize you had a son.”

“Have I not mentioned Richarlyson?” Pac’s eyes flicked down to the checkered patterned floor. He stepped closer to the baker by three tiles. “I’m sure I would’ve before this. Especially since you told me about Ramón.”

“Uh-huh, right,” Fit said, voice raising in pitch just slightly. “Maybe you did, and I forgot. We usually talk so early.”

“That’s okay,” Pac excused. He tried not to hang on the twitch at the corner of Fit’s lip. “But yes, I have a son. His name is Richarlyson and he is a little younger than yours.”

“Cool, cool,” Fit said. He sounded distant, unsure. “You said… you were the only one who could stay home with him? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you… had a partner. You’ve never talked about them.”

“What?” Pac’s heart jumped into his throat, and he barked out a laugh. Fit tilted his head, confused. “Oh man– No! I do not have a partner. I guess I really didn’t tell you about Richarlyson if you don’t know about his dads. You would remember them.”

“You don’t have a partner,” the baker echoed. Pac nodded reassuringly, and his shoulders dropped with something that could almost be perceived as relief. “Alright, then what’s so special about his dads?”

“Okay,” Pac started, sliding even closer like he was about to hand over some worthwhile gossip. “So, there are five of us. Richarlyson is legally Forever and Cellbit’s son, but they were just married for tax reasons and are divorced now. Cellbit’s actually got a boyfriend, Roier, and we think he’s gonna propose. It’s a whole thing.”

Fit leaned onto the counter like he always did when he was interested in Pac’s story. It was warm with familiarity, despite them never being in a context this unhurried before. They weren’t tripping over each other trying to say what they wanted to in their time limit. He could get used to this.

“Cellbit and Forever are still good friends obviously, and we all share one big group home,” Pac went on, swaying nearer until he was basically at the register. “Other than Forever, Cellbit, and me, there’s also Felps and my best friend Mike. Most of us have been friends since we were kids, except for Forever. We’ve all been helping raise Richarlyson for six years. We are his dads, even if it’s not biological.”

Fit was visibly struggling to keep up, but Pac didn’t pay it much mind. It was probably better that he did not fully understand right away — they would have an excuse to talk later. At the very least, he knew that Pac wasn’t in a serious relationship, and that was all the story needed to get across.

A similar question welled up in Pac’s throat and he didn’t get a chance to stop it from bubbling out, “What about you?”

“Me?” Fit straightened. “What about me?”

“You know,” Pac said, trailing off. He swallowed the inevitably building nerves. “Ramón, he is a very active child. I’m sure you and your partner have a lot of stories about raising him.”

“My partner,” Fit whispered. Suddenly, the realization struck him and he bent himself in half over the countertop to deny it, “Oh, no! No, my partner isn’t in the picture anymore. We broke up shortly after I adopted Ramón. It’s been just the two of us for years.”

“I see,” Pac exhaled sharply. All at once, the tension released itself, and he tumbled into a small bout of laughter. Fit joined him, though it was clear he didn’t really know why it was happening. Finally, Pac calmed and said, “Sorry, we’re just in the same boat. I think that’s cool.”

“Yeah, I guess we are,” Fit said, so quiet it was almost inaudible. 

Pac’s breath caught. For some reason, he felt like there was more to the other’s statement than what he’d intended. If it weren’t for the counter between them, they might have drifted even closer together. It was dangerous to want to indulge in that. Dangerous because now Pac knew there was nothing in the way of him pursuing what he wanted — who he wanted.

“Have you, uh,” Pac started talking, more out of fear of what would happen if he didn’t than actual curiosity. “Have you got any pastries left?”

There was a display case right next to them. Pac could’ve easily broken eye contact to check. He could’ve easily seen the decent supply of baked goods waiting there. Pac really didn’t want to.

Even though he didn’t look, he still knew well enough that Fit always had some remaining that he saved to be sold the next day. They had discussed it once before, and he couldn’t forget. That was how Pac discovered that Fit, without fail, made sure he had a fresh batch of cookies and croissants waiting on the days he usually came in. The pastries he got were never recycled.

Despite his knowledge, he still waited for Fit’s confirmation. The baker nodded, and they moved over to peer through the display at the same time. The croissants were long gone, but he was fine with that. They were a breakfast food to him anyway. The snickerdoodles, after a few weeks, had grown to be one of his favorites, but he didn’t choose them out of fear of Fit giving him a more expensive treat for free. 

His eyes caught on a single remaining slice of chocolate cake on the top-most shelf. Fit followed his interest and was already pulling it out before he could say a word. The mechanic slid to the register, expecting that to be the natural next step. Instead, Fit silently took the cake back into the kitchen.

Pac stayed put, pretty certain he wasn’t supposed to go into the employees-only zone. Eventually, Fit re-emerged. He had put the slice onto a cute plate, a fork resting on the edge, and as it was handed over, Pac saw what had taken so long. There was vanilla icing around the edges, and a swirling design on the top that was vaguely reminiscent of a heart — although he was probably just being silly, seeing things that weren’t actually there. He smiled down at it all the same.

“This is free,” Fit said, holding up a hand as Pac started to protest. The mechanic narrowed his eyes. “With an exception.”

“And what would that be?”

“You have to eat it here,” Fit stated. “With me. And even if it’s disgusting, you have to finish the whole thing.”

“That’s it?” Pac raised a skeptical eyebrow, mostly just unimpressed at the poor exchange. He already owed Fit too much to repay. The baker nodded, firm in his decision, and there was no room for arguments. He scoffed and turned away, cake in hand, to settle at a table. “Fine, you win for now.”

He sat down, and felt a presence behind him. His chair scooted forward without him doing anything. Fit leaned down over Pac’s shoulder, and the latter nearly dropped his dessert. The baker was inches away and smiling, eyes half-lidded. Pac watched as his lips formed around the words, “I have a feeling I’ll keep winning.”

“Uh,” Pac stammered, the room heating around him. “Right. Yeah. Probably.”

Fit snorted and backed off. He took the seat across from Pac and propped his head on his palm. Mischievous bastard. 

Pac distracted from his skyrocketing pulse by taking his first bite of the cake. It was brilliant, but everything Fit made was bound to be. It melted in his mouth, not too overwhelming of a flavor when paired with the vanilla frosting, and he immediately took a second bite. The taste was even better as he got further into the fluffy center. 

“You like it?” Fit flicked a crumb off the table. Pac nodded, mouth full. “You seem to be a big fan of chocolate.”

“Nah,” Pac said. “Not really. It’s too rich most of the time. I only like it when you make it.”

Fit tensed. Pac tore his eyes away from his snack to check if he was alright. His eyes were wide, fixed on the mechanic, his ears rapidly turning red. “Oh. I didn’t realize. That’s so nice.”

“Just being honest,” Pac muttered, embarrassed in turn. “I’m glad I’m finally able to try your other stuff. I feel bad just sticking to my one favorite order.”

“I wasn’t sure you were going to get anything since I didn’t have your usual,” Fit said, pressing his face further into his palm and smiling. “Kinda thought you might just leave instantly.”

“What? You think you’re only worth one pastry?” Pac set down his fork, baffled. He leaned back in his chair, sighing dramatically, “Ah, Fit! I don’t know if I will ever return because you didn’t have chocolate croissants this one time.”

Pac yelped as he was gently kicked under the table. Fit rolled his eyes. “Well, if I’d known you were coming, I would’ve baked extra. You’re unpredictable lately.”

“Right, right,” Pac agreed, his sarcasm evident in his tone. “Don’t worry. Next time, I’ll just let you know telepathically—“

“What’s your phone number?”

Pac stopped. Fit refused to meet his eye. “My phone number?”

“Yeah,” the baker said. It was hard to comprehend what a voice so powerful could sound like when it was soft, but Pac heard it now. “So you can tell me when you’ll be stopping by.”

“Yeah, yes, of course,” Pac choked. He searched around for a napkin or something to scribble it onto, but Fit was already sliding his phone over. Nervously, Pac input his information. He didn’t dare add more to his contact than his name and number. “And you can text me anytime. I’m always awake.”

“Text you,” Fit repeated dazedly.

“Yeah,” Pac hummed. “I mean, Ramón was pretty excited by the idea of visiting my garage. I’d be happy to arrange that for him.”

The baker blinked. “Trust me. I’ve heard about that little deal you made with him a hundred times. He is ecstatic. I’ve genuinely never seen him like another adult as much as he likes you.”

“That’s a relief,” Pac laughed. He picked up his fork and continued eating. The cake was almost done, so he cut off smaller pieces. “I want him to like me. He seems like a cool kid.” 

“Ramón is my beautiful baby boy,” Fit declared. “Of course he’s cool.”

“Is he not here with you today,” Pac inquired. 

The other man shook his head. “He’s upstairs watching his favorite cartoon. Our apartment is right above the bakery.”

“Really,” Pac gasped. “I thought it was weird that you were always working, but it makes more sense that you live close by.”

“Yep, I’m such a workaholic that I can’t even let myself rest at home,” the baker chuckled. “I’m thinking of hiring helping hands to take away some of the stress.”

Pac savored another bite of the cake, brushing frosting off his lip with his thumb. Fit went quiet, but he thought nothing of it. Pac was about to lift his fork again when the other man cleared his throat.

“You’ve, uh,” Fit said. “Got frosting right here.” 

He gestured to a spot beside his lip, and Pac attempted to mimic it. His results were frustratingly futile, and he could tell Fit was struggling to communicate better directions. Finally, Pac gave up and groaned, “Ugh, where is it?”

“Just stay still.”

The mechanic wasn’t given a chance to process before Fit shifted forward. Without warning, a thumb pressed against his bottom lip, swiping down and away. It lingered for a split second too long, and Pac noted with startling clarity that Fit’s eyes were focused on the lower half of his face. He was tempted to bring attention to their position, tempted to reach up and encourage Fit’s hand to rest by his jaw. 

He didn’t though, and the touch retreated. 

“I have to finish closing up the shop,” Fit said, voice hoarse like it was caught on something. Pac couldn’t stop staring at him. “You’re welcome to hang out as long as you want, but Ramón’s gonna wonder where I am soon.”

“Right,” Pac replied, and he was equally as ruined. “Richas is being watched by Forever, but he probably wants a break. Poor kid’s still a little under the weather, and he doesn’t like to be alone.”

Fit smiled and stood. Pac watched him go, finishing the rest of his cake in silence. Dishes clanked in the background, a sink running somewhere too. Eventually, the sound of bells and the closing of the door echoed through the room as well. Pac was too shocked to register the message that beeped through his phone until he was at home.

Fit wasn’t as strong as he would always like to be. When encountering a situation he doesn’t understand, he has a tendency to react with the first thing that comes to mind. In the past, that hasn’t worked so well. Especially considering his main weakness was romantic situations. Fit had been through many things harsher in this world than a crush, and yet it was the accelerated beating of his heart that crippled him frequently nowadays. 

As of late, his problem had been particularly bad. He really thought that it would’ve stopped progressing once a certain mechanic had made it clear he intended to continue visiting the bakery every week — it took away some of the mystery of predicting whether or not he would walk through the doors each morning. 

But it turned out the mystery wasn’t what attracted him. Not even slightly. He got excited when he knew Pac was coming. He baked too many croissants, ran out of chocolate at one point and panic-bought loads more. Fit didn’t do that. Had never done that before. Not for anyone. He wasn’t the type to give customers special treatment, or stress himself out in his own kitchen. 

Yet, his rule had been easily broken when he saw a sweet face staring back at him from behind the display case, and again when he realized that stepping closer to that delightful person made warmth flare on the other man’s cheeks. It was a hook, and Fit had fallen for it easily. He had flirted with him. For the first time in Fit’s life, he had flirted. And it kept happening. He trusted his instincts to get him through conversations that his mind couldn’t, and he ended up genuinely forming a connection.

Fit could handle it in the beginning. He could handle tiny conversations while the sun rose through the window. He could handle doodled faces on receipts. He could handle that lovely stammering voice and the pretty man it came from. He could even handle how it followed him after his working hours. Fit completely shattered when their routine changed. 

Pac visited him for five minutes during the daytime, and his instincts had failed him. He was sure he came off too strong — wiping oil off Pac’s cheek and asking him to come back so they could be alone. Fit had almost forgotten to give him extra cookies. It was a miracle that Pac had seen him in that headstrong state and still decided to take him up on his offer.

And now, after all of his bold moves and obvious flirtations, he was hesitating over a text message. Not over sending it — that drama had been fixed by an overexcited Ramón stealing his phone and pretending to be him — but over the response he’d received. His child had suggested that they come visit Pac’s garage after school on Friday. The mechanic’s response was simply, “Sure!”

Which, naturally, led him to stand in front of the garage at the designated time, on the designated day. His son was holding onto one of his hands, and his phone was gripped tightly in the other. Ramón tugged him towards one of the open garage doors, but he stayed firmly planted. Honestly, Fit had never expected to make it this far. He couldn’t have anticipated that giving one attractive customer a few extra cookies would turn into this. Whatever this was.

Fit was wading in water far deeper than he’d ever explored. He didn’t want to misstep and sink. What if Ramón broke something? What if Fit broke something? His son was the engineer in his family, what if Pac saw how little he knew about machines and lost interest? Worse, what if Pac didn’t have interest to begin with? What if Fit had been reading their interactions incorrectly for weeks? What if they were just close friends? What if they hadn’t been teetering on the edge of something more?

His son tugged harder on his hands, and he began to lose ground. So, Fit chose to do what he always did in high-stress situations — shut down. Chaining up his heart and throwing away the key was the safest approach. He could confront the terrifying reality of feelings and what to do about them on another day. 

“C’mon, Dad,” Ramón whined. “You’re being a baby.”

“Oh yeah,” Fit huffed. “And what do you know about my internal issues, kiddo?”

“I don’t care about your internal issues,” his son snarked, directing all the usual smugness of an eight-year-old with no skin in the game at him. “But you have to hurry. He won’t wanna marry you if you’re late.”

“What?” Fit felt like his eyes were going to fall out of his skull. “Excuse me? Ramón, why would you say—“

“Are you Fit?” Fit glanced up and Ramón’s mouth snapped shut. Leaning in the doorway to the garage was a man, about a head shorter than the baker, with bright pink hair and taped-together glasses. He was wearing a mildly amused look. “Pac’s inside. He’s still working on something, but you can come distract him.”

While he was busy processing Ramón’s misconception and the newcomer’s words, his son took advantage of the situation. He slipped his hand out of his father’s and darted into the auto-shop. Fit called after him, but it was too late. He groaned, “I’m sorry. He’s really hyper. I promise he’s a good kid.”

“Trust me, I understand,” the other man snorted. “I’m Mike.”

Fit brightened. “Oh! You’re one of Pac’s friends.”

“I hope he talks about me just as nicely as he talks about you,” Mike replied, before disappearing back into the shop. Fit scrambled to follow, no longer able to hesitate unnoticed. The interior of the garage was like any other mechanic he’d been to. There were a couple of cars parked around, and one or two people worked on them. They had a break room off to the side, where Mike was already sitting down with a cup of coffee. 

He didn’t immediately spot Pac or Ramón, but he realized fairly quickly why that was. In the furthest corner, there was a car raised slightly above the ground. Ramón was talking to another child beside it, both of them almost too short to see from where Fit stood. He made his way over, trying his best not to disturb the people working. Ramón tossed himself at his leg the second Fit was within arm’s reach. His son exclaimed, “Dad, look! I made a friend.”

Fit put a hand on his head and glanced at the other child. This little boy was younger than his own, with a head full of tight curls nearly covering his eyes. He wore a bright yellow jersey that was a little too big for him, nearly preventing Fit from seeing that the kid’s right leg was a prosthetic. A little, chubby hand was extended towards him, and he shook it. “My name is Richarlyson!”

“Richarlyson,” Fit said, blinking. “You’re Pac’s son.”

“He is,” called a familiar voice, slightly muffled. The three of them shuffled around until they found the source. There were two legs sticking out from underneath the car, resting on top of a small cart with wheels. It was Pac, undoubtedly. “And he was supposed to hand me a wrench five minutes ago.”

A palm shot out from beneath the vehicle, grabbing at the air. Richarlyson giggled, and ran to a nearby open toolbox. With great effort, he pulled a wrench out and dragged it over. Pac took it, and Fit could hear the metal squeaking. After a few seconds, it stopped and the cart rolled back. Fit sucked in a breath. 

“Hey, close your mouth, man. I’m not that cool,” the mechanic laughed up at him from where he laid on his back. He was grungy from hours of work, but with his hair splayed out, and that grin on his face, Pac looked so pretty. The baker gulped down the unknown emotions that welled in his throat. Pac plucked a towel off the ground beside him and used it to wipe his face, then his hands. He jumped to his feet with boundless amounts of energy, and Fit was utterly speechless. 

“Pac,” Ramón called, and he abandoned his father to latch onto the other man. “Pac, can you teach me how to build cars too?”

Ramón was unbothered by the stains that were actively smearing themselves onto his shirt from hugging the mechanic. Fit should’ve been worrying over that in his place, but his focus was elsewhere. Ramón hated physical contact, especially from adults. Fit was the only exception to that — or at least, he was. In some strange turn of events, Ramón was clutching onto Pac’s leg like a lifeline, and not even flinching as a hand started brushing through his hair absentmindedly. 

“Hi, Ramón,” Pac hummed. “It’s good to see you. You’ve been talking to Richas?”

“I told him that you’re being mean to me, Pai,” Richas said, a higher pitch to his voice. “I don’t like cars. You should make Ramón learn all this boring stuff instead. He likes it way more.”

“Richas,” Pac scolded lightly. “It’s not boring. It’s good to know how to fix stuff.”

“Pai Forever doesn’t make me go to work with him,” Richas continued. There was a mischievous grin forming on his face that was exceedingly familiar to Fit. “He buys me sweets and says not to tell the other pais.”

“No way,” Pac gasped, glancing up at Fit to share his outrage with someone who would understand. “Do you hear this? The ungrateful boy doesn’t want to learn life lessons. He just wants to eat snacks and draw pictures.”

An idea popped into Fit’s head and he tapped Richarlyson on the shoulder. “How about we make a deal?”

“What kind of deal?” Richas narrowed his eyes.

“If you try really hard to learn what your dad’s teaching you, and he thinks you’ve done a good job,” Fit said. Pac’s squinted to match his son’s suspicious expression, probably catching on to what was happening. “Then he can bring you to my bakery, and you can pick anything you want for free.”

“Really?” Richas’ jaw dropped with surprise. He and Ramón shared an overjoyed look, and Fit received very enthusiastic nods. “Okay! I’m gonna learn so fast. C’mon, Ramón, do you wanna see where we keep the power drills?”

Both Pac and Fit lurched to stop them, but Mike appeared out of thin air. He grabbed the boys by their collars and hoisted them off the ground like they weighed nothing. He raised an unimpressed eyebrow at the two and sighed, “When are you going to learn? The drills aren’t cool at all. We have chainsaws in the storage closet that are much deadlier.”

The children cheered and allowed themselves to be carried off to what Fit could only assume was their doom.

“I’m never going to see my son again,” Fit sighed. Pac rubbed circles on his back. “Parenthood is full of tragedies.”

“That is true,” Pac consoled, laughing. “Don’t worry, Fit. There are four other dads that would kill him if he got Richas hurt. Or they would try to. He might still win that fight.”

“I’m not gonna ask,” Fit decided, and Pac nodded like that was probably a good choice. He glanced over and down at the man beside him. There was a smile on the mechanic’s face, one filled with nostalgia and distant happiness. The hand on his back had ceased its circling and was resting in stillness. Fit kind of hoped it would stay there forever. “You don’t mind that I offered him desserts, right? I know some parents are picky about that.”

“No, no. Forever’s already bribing him with those anyway,” Pac huffed. “I am a little impressed by the lengths you’ll go to bankrupt yourself.”

The baker rolled his eyes at the glare being shot his way. “I have plenty of food. I can afford to make a few deals with children.”

“But it’s not just deals with children,” the mechanic corrected. “You give me free stuff too. Such a bad business practice. I bet you give your desserts away for free to everyone who asks.”

“No. Just you,” Fit replied quickly, not really thinking. Pac’s smile dropped, a blush filtering onto his cheeks. The afternoon light caught on the obsidian shine of his eyes, twinkling faintly. Fit cleared his throat and turned the opposite direction. “I’m not friends with the other customers.”

“Ah,” Pac whispered, and the baker knew he was still staring. “Right. Friends.”

Silence settled over them, though the workshop itself buzzed with life. They were frozen in a place between time, between words. There were phrases itching to be spoken aloud, but neither had the courage. Neither had the willpower. It wasn’t the correct time, the correct place. Those times would present themselves if they were really meant to happen. He didn’t want to mess up by rushing it. Fit would wait. 

“So, uh,” he began. Pac’s attention had never left him. “What’s wrong with this car?”

“This one? What isn’t wrong with it?” The mechanic grumbled under his breath, “The asshole who sent it to us tried to fix it himself with no prior knowledge. Every part is scrambled.”

Pac launched into a more in-depth explanation of what exactly had him so agitated. Fit didn’t understand a word, but occasionally, the other man slowed down and broke it into more manageable pieces. He zoned out watching the movement of Pac’s lips. Children laughed in the background, cars grumbled with varying levels of success. 

When the afternoon sun caught Pac’s eyes again, Fit’s anxiety over their situation was replaced with an intensely comfortable sense of peace. He knew, if nothing else, that they had time. Time to grow. Time to learn. Time to love. And that was all he needed.

Pac’s week came to a resplendent end, as it always seemed to recently, in Fit’s bakery. It was dim, the only light coming from some singular bulbs above the register and the kitchen. The sign on the door read ‘closed,’ but it didn’t apply to him — hadn’t applied to him in a month, since Fit had visited the garage. 

Once a week, sometimes more, Pac would wander through the door, and they’d linger for hours. They didn’t stay in the front room the whole time. He’d follow Fit into the kitchen while he packed away excess dough, or he would help organize the ingredient storage so they could keep talking. 

Occasionally, he would repair things around the kitchen too. There was a leaky pipe beneath the sink that was fixed with the tightening of a screw, and the chain on Ramón’s bike needed to be replaced. Fit was grateful, offered to pay for his services, but Pac didn’t let him. It was a worthwhile exchange, and he had already been paid in sweets. 

“I insist,” Fit would say.

And Pac would respond, “I’ve been insisting too. Either both of us go broke, or neither of us.”

Today, they weren’t doing any of that. Instead, they found themselves in a position that was quite familiar to them — Fit behind the register, and Pac across from him. There were slight differences in how they filled these places compared to where they’d started – compared to when they were strangers. Pac didn’t remain a respectful distance away, preferring to drape himself over the counter with a dramatic flair that was common for him. Fit had a cloth in his hand, and was wiping down any visible surfaces. 

He nudged against the mechanic’s arms from time-to-time, finally huffing, “This won’t get done if you don’t move.”

“Good,” Pac replied. They kept their tones quiet, knowing well that Ramón would come downstairs if he heard his second favorite person. Neither acknowledged why they preferred those moments where it was only them. Without children, without fellow customers, without the world. They just did. “You’ll give me more attention.”

“Oh yeah,” the baker chuckled. “You’re definitely deprived of that. If I give you any more, my son will get jealous.”

“Okay, let him. I can take Ramón in a fight.” The mechanic shrugged. Fit flicked his forehead, and he whined, “Aw, you’re so mean to me.”

“Shush.” The other stepped away from the counter for a moment and came back with a single sugar-cookie in his hand. He held it in front of Pac, and it was eaten within a second. “Don’t go saying I don’t treat you well.”

“You’re so good to me, Fit,” Pac said, satiated. “So good that I want to stay in this spot for the rest of my life.”

“That’s it. I’m just gonna move you myself,” Fit declared. He grabbed one of the mechanic’s wrists, beginning to tug, but Pac had other ideas. He sat up, pulled away enough that Fit believed he had won. Then, he turned around and jumped up to sit on the counter. The baker barked out a betrayed laugh, quickly covering his mouth before it could get too loud. Pac grinned at him over his shoulder. “You’re such a pest.”

“And you are too eager to get done,” Pac said, feigning disappointment. He tilted back further and swayed into Fit’s space. The baker held his ground, lips pulled into a sarcastic smile. “It’s like you want me to leave.”

“Why would you think that?” Fit hummed. His breath brushed the other’s face, and Pac suppressed a shiver. When it was clear he wasn’t going to get an answer, Fit rolled his eyes and returned to cleaning what he could. “My separation anxiety wouldn’t let you go even if you wanted to.”

Pac smiled, recognizing the obvious joke. Still, it made his heart pound at that familiar, quickened pace. The feeling had bothered him for a while, affected his ability to think and act, but it was second nature now. Pac was more concerned when his chest wasn’t aching, though that sensation never lasted long around Fit. His baker was too sweet, too good at going along with his bits. They were a pair, not unlike him and Mike, but different all the same.

Pac was the mechanic between them, but it was Fit who understood his inner workings the best. He knew which buttons to press, which pieces to connect, which strings to tug. He could tell when Pac needed a boost, or when things were getting to be too much. They could stay in complete silence, nothing but the individual fires in their souls to connect them, and Fit would know him to his core.

“I’m lucky then,” Pac said, though he never specified what about. His eyes traced over the outline of Fit’s nose, down to his lips, hesitating there as they grinned, over to his jaw, and up again. The light from the kitchen filtered around him like a highlight of his best features. Pac wanted to reach over and hold him still so he could observe more in depth. He shifted, pulling his knee up onto the counter and squaring his shoulders to face Fit directly. The baker glanced at his leg and sighed. “What? Something wrong?”

“Determined to draw this out, are you?” Fit glared at him playfully. He swatted at the offending appendage with his towel. It didn’t budge. His cleaning was halted again. “You’re really annoying sometimes.”

“Maybe.” Pac grinned. “But you love me.”

Fit tensed. Pac realized what he’d said. 

It was too late to take it back, too late to disguise it as something else. Neither of them moved, nor spoke. The moment held itself and its victims in frozen fear for far too long. Silence sunk its teeth into his throat, seared his soul, siphoned his air. Pac should’ve kept quiet. He should’ve done what he was asked. He should’ve buried his overbearing feelings somewhere out of sight. Now, he could do nothing but flounder at his own downfall.  

Fit’s eyes met his. They were almost gold in the faded lighting, entrancing. The emotions that flowed through them were quick, panicked… but not bad. There weren't hints of revulsion, or disgust like Pac had expected. There wasn’t anger or sadness at the mood that had been broken. Fit’s gaze was simply unreadable, glazed over with disbelief and something else. Something more.

Pac’s heart squeezed in his chest, suffocating in desire and hope. Fit wasn’t breathing, fixated only on him. Always on him. The mechanic tilted his head, undeniably aware of how the movement bettered the angle. His baker noticed too. Always noticed. Months of hovering between action and inaction. Months of light touches and careful words. Months of knowing but remaining uncertain. Months of falling and catching themselves, and at last, they were leaning in.

“Fit,” Pac whispered, name brushing against the lips of its owner. 

“Yes?” A hand ghosted reverently along Pac’s cheek, sending a spike of electricity to the tips of his fingers.

“Can I kiss you?” 

Fit searched his face with half-lidded eyes, pupils dilated and cheeks stained red. He found what he was looking for, and latched onto it. A singular emotion made itself at home in his gaze, and it looked like love. “Yes.”

With that final confirmation, Pac gave in to his every want, his every need, his every desire. He closed the distance and kissed him. Warmth spread through his body, surrounding him in the air of a daydream. His thoughts disappeared from his brain, taking with them all the fear and anguish and pain he had accumulated. His heart swelled behind his ribs, only beating harder as Fit cupped his face and kissed back. 

Pac loathed his seat upon the counter for limiting his movements. He wanted to pull Fit closer, forget whatever had come before that point, fully bask in the affection that flowed like a river out of them. But then Fit sighed against his lips, content and complete, and Pac couldn’t focus on anything else. 

Fit tasted like chocolate and cinnamon, like fresh bread and sugar-coated smiles. His hands were soft, stable, grounding. Pac felt himself collapsing into him, trusting that those hands wouldn’t let him fall. He didn’t need to stress or worry. He could lift his arms and not fear losing his balance. He was safe there, in Fit’s hold. 

Pac laced his fingers together behind the other man’s neck. A pulse that was not his own drummed against his palms, quickening by the second. His lips tingled as more of his breath was stolen from his lungs. They needed to part, to pause, but neither could seem to stop. They had been yearning, craving, begging to experience this for months, and they weren’t going to let it slip away so soon. For a time, they settled for brief gasps between kisses, until even that became insufficient.

Fit pulled back first, eyes blinking open. There were stars woven into his irises. Pac reveled in the scarlet tips of his ears and the hands that remained on his face. Fit was always beautiful, but tonight he was especially so. He was everything Pac could’ve ever asked for and more. He loved him, loved him desperately. 

“You know,” Pac started. “If you wanted me to move that bad, you could’ve just asked.”

“Oh my God,” Fit groaned, his huffing turning into heavy laughter. The mechanic shushed him, and he remembered with a start that they were supposed to be quiet. 

It was too late. Above them, they could hear the rapid pattering of little feet. Ramón.

“Fuck,” Pac cursed, jumping off the counter. He hurried to gather his jacket from where it’d been abandoned at a nearby table. “I’ll never get home on time if he sees me.”

“Wait,” Fit called. He rounded the counter in three large steps, and paused directly in front of Pac. “This, uh… This wasn’t a mistake, right?”

“What? A mistake? No,” Pac stammered. “No, Fit, I like you. I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you.”

“Oh,” Fit said, his shoulders dropping with relief. “Good, yeah. Me too. I love you too.”

Pac softened. He pushed himself up on his toes and placed a small, sweet kiss on Fit’s cheek. There were footsteps pounding against the stairs in the kitchen. He had to hurry. Pac tied his jacket around his waist and backed up. He raised a hand in a slight wave, grinning at the flustered man in the middle of the room.

“Bye, Fit,” Pac chimed. “See you later?”

“See you later,” Fit confirmed. His voice was drowned out by jingling bells as Pac left the bakery, knowing that when he returned in the morning, there would be cookies and croissants waiting for him.