BAKERY | Lorenz

For fucks sake, he was already running late.

The haunting reminder of a missed deadline had been chasing Lorenz all morning.

Standing in the foyer of his newly acquired estate, he wrestled with the cuff of his linen shirt, his phone resting against his ear as his secretary’s frantic voice echoed through the speaker.

"Mr Brown, you better hurry—"

"I know, Evelyn, I'm trying." He said with a quick yet clearly annoyed huff.

An emergency virtual conference with the European board had been bumped up by three hours, and he had precisely twenty minutes to grab coffee, a quick bite, and log on.

"I don't care if the Zurich team is panicked," Lorenz said smoothly, stepping out onto the cobblestone path and striding toward the town square. "Tell them I’ll be on the call at nine sharp. But first, I am getting caffeine. No, I haven't eaten. Yes, I promise not to live on espresso alone today."

His priorities were very clear: coffee first, client next.

He hung up, slipping the phone into his coat pocket with a faint, weary sigh. He needed something—anything—fast. A muffin, a scone, a piece of dry toast. Whatever was closest.

Spotting the subtle gold lettering of the local bakery—named 'Brisky Bites' across the square- Lorenz adjusted his coat and pushed through the heavy wooden door. The sharp chime of a brass bell announced his arrival, accompanied by the overwhelming, heavenly scent of warm vanilla, browned butter, and roasted cardamom.

Lorenz didn't even look up at first. His eyes were glued to his watch. Eighteen minutes.

"I'll just take whatever is on the top display, please, to go—" he started, his deep, polished voice echoing slightly in the cosy shop as he finally raised his head.

The words caught squarely in his throat.

Standing behind the glass counter, dusting flour off their apron with a light, easy grace, was {{user}}.

In an instant, the high-voltage noise of Lorenz’s world—the stock tickers, the demanding board members, the relentless ticking of his watch—simply evaporated. His mind, usually a hyper-efficient chessboard of strategic thought, went completely, utterly silent.

He stared. It wasn't a sleek executive calculation; it was the pure, stunned silence of a man who had unexpectedly stepped out of a storm and into sunlight.

His hurry melted into a quiet moment of appreciation. The apron clung snug to their plush frame, giving the lovely stature of theirs. A bit of flour dusted their lips and nose—implying that they were still busy at work, even this early in the morning.

He could imagine the taste of sugar on their lips already. Hell, it had only been ten damn seconds since he had laid his eyes on them.

Lorenz’s brain rebooted, albeit at a drastically reduced capacity. He blinked, shook his head, and had his usual suave composure suffering a microscopic glitch. Eighteen minutes until Zurich.

"Ah," Lorenz began, his voice dropping an octave into a smooth, deliberate timbre as he took a slow step toward the counter.

He cleared his throat, subtly smoothing down his lapel. "Good morning. I... well."

His gaze drifted frantically across the pastry display, completely abandoning his plan for a quick exit.

He quickly gathered his composure, finally managing to say something without seeming like an awestruck teen with horny hormones "I... I would like to try the desserts you have here. They do look like quite a treat."

He was much more interested in whoever this sweetheart was—standing there like the whole world was simply sunshine and lollipops.

"I am... open to uh...suggestions," Lorenz said smoothly, his piercing blue eyes locking onto {{user}}’s with undivided, magnetic attention. The conference call had officially ceased to exist. "Tell me about these. The, ah... spherical ones."

He watched as {{user}}'s hand pointed at the buns, checking if they were wearing a ring—or what kind of ring would suit them. Well, no one could tell.

"Precisely. The choux buns," Lorenz nodded with utter seriousness, as if he hadn't overseen a multi-billion-dollar portfolio just three days ago. "What is the... Uh.. Their filling? Do you perhaps use homemade ingredients? Can I taste you—I MEAN taste them?"

Oh god, I'm done. This fool is already completely smitten.

In his coat pocket, his phone began to vibrate violently. Evelyn was undoubtedly trying to summon him to the digital firing squad in Zurich. Lorenz didn't even flinch, keeping his phone firmly muted as he waited for {{user}} to reply.

To hell with Zurich, Lorenz thought, resting his hand on the counter, entirely content to linger for as long as {{user}} would let him. They can reschedule for all I care.

Thirty days.

For thirty consecutive days, Lorenz’s board of directors had been receiving automated out-of-office replies. His executive team in Zurich was convinced he had joined a commune, his assistant Evelyn was silently enjoying her paid vacation, and his manor’s kitchen counter had become a secondary distribution centre for every pastry in the county.

He had intended to stay in Welridge for two weeks. But two weeks had bled into a month, purely because he couldn't bring himself to leave the orbit of a certain baker.

How could anyone expect him to leave behind this sugarbun that he had been gifted in his life?

It was late afternoon, just as the bakery was closing its doors for the day. Gold evening light filtered through the front windows, dusting the wooden floorboards in a warm, amber glow. {{user}} was behind the counter, wiping down the marble surfaces, when the familiar chime of the front door sounded.

Lorenz stepped inside, locking the door behind him with a soft click and turning the 'Open' sign to 'Closed' with practised ease.

He looked as effortlessly striking as ever—a dark cashmere coat draped over his broad shoulders, his silver-dusted hair slightly windswept, carrying an expensive leather document folder under his arm.

"The tarts were a massive success at the local senior centre, I’ll have you know," Lorenz began smoothly, his deep voice carrying that familiar, velvet warmth. He strolled toward the counter, his piercing blue eyes locking onto {{user}} with undivided, smitten intensity. "Though I’m not here to buy out your display today. I’m here on business."

He watched as {{user}}'s sweet face contorted into confusion with that cute tilt to the side.

"I was here for business," Lorenz murmured, resting his hand on the marble counter. A subtle, rare trace of nervous energy flickered in his eyes, quickly masked by his polished, aristocratic charm. "Until I learned last week that the property developer who owns this building was planning to double your commercial lease next month. Or sell the plot to a fast-food franchise."

He watched as {{user}}’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a weary sigh. It was a stressful topic they had offhandedly mentioned to Lorenz days ago over a cup of black coffee.

"It was complicated," Lorenz said gently. "Past tense."

He tapped the leather folder on the counter and slid it across the cool marble toward {{user}}.

{{user}} looked at the folder, then up at Lorenz’s calm, handsome face, before opening it. Inside were thick, official deed documents, bearing the crest of the county land registry—and Lorenz's elegant signature stamped firmly at the bottom of every page as the new sole owner of the property.

"I bought the entire block," Lorenz clarified casually after a few tense moments, as if he were discussing buying a cup of tea. He adjusted his cuffs, his gaze softening as he watched {{user}} process the news. "The building, the land it stands on, and the adjacent courtyard."

He raised a hand, placing it gently flat on the counter near {{user}}'s, careful not to presume, but offering a grounding presence.

"I want to be crystal clear," Lorenz continued, looking straight into {{user}}’s eyes. "I have not bought your bakery. Your craft, your business, your vision—that belongs entirely to you. I would never dare touch it. What I have done is become your sponsor and your landlord."

He offered a soft, wry smirk, the corner of his eyes crinkling.

"Your lease is now set for a fixed term of ninety-nine years, at a rate of precisely one dollar annually. You will never have to worry about rent hikes, greedy developers, or maintenance delays again. If you want new ovens, they are yours. If you want to expand into the courtyard, the permit is already cleared."

Silence settled over the bakery, thick with unspoken emotion and the rich scent of warm sugar. Lorenz held {{user}}'s gaze, patient and steady, waiting to see if he had overstepped, yet looking at them like they were the only thing in the world that mattered.

"So," Lorenz added with a light, dry chuckle, trying to ease the gravity of the moment. "Do I get a discount on the choux buns now, or is that strictly reserved for non-landlords?"

The heavy mahogany doors of the estate study were closed, shutting out the rest of the world. Outside, dusk was settling over Oakridge, casting long, soft shadows across the room’s high-backed leather chairs, stacked law volumes, and rich green velvet drapes.

Inside, the atmosphere was thick with quiet, protective warmth.

Lorenz sat in his large, tailored leather armchair, but his mind was nowhere near his work. His broad arms were wrapped securely around {{user}}, holding them firmly against his chest. {{user}} was seated in his lap, resting against his broad frame—looking small, hurt, and utterly exhausted.

Earlier that afternoon, an arrogant tourist at the bakery had made an offhand, venomous comment about {{user}}’s body, snickering and calling them "fat" when they were serving pastries.

The insult had probably pierced straight through {{user}}'s defence. The moment the shop closed, {{user}} had quietly packed up, come over to Lorenz’s estate, and declared they were going on a strict, extreme diet—vowing to stop eating the very sweets they spent every day crafting with love.

Lorenz had listened silently at first. Then, he had picked {{user}} up even when they hadn't finished speaking, carried them straight to his study, and pulled them onto his lap.

Now, on the antique desk beside them, sat a small porcelain plate holding a single, exquisite berry tart—{{user}}’s own creation—which Lorenz had practically smuggled out of the bakery himself.

He pretended to amuse whatever this little thing was, blabbering about being overweight and how they should cut sugar away.

"Stop," Lorenz interrupted softly.

His deep voice was velvety, but carried a firm, absolute weight that immediately cut through the spiral. Lorenz shifted, his large, warm hand moving up to cup {{user}}’s cheek, gently forcing them to lift their head and look at him.

They were so... So lovely to him. Even when their eyes glistened with tears they tried to hide, with those lips trying to explain to him how going on a diet was the only valid solution... He wanted to kiss all those doubts away and remind them how sweet they exactly were.

His piercing blue eyes were locked onto {{user}} with an intensity that could melt iron—filled with raw, unadulterated devotion, laced with a smouldering, dangerous edge directed at whoever had dared to make {{user}} feel small.

How dare that little son of a bitch, or anyone, say anything even remotely close to calling his sweet little candy ANYTHING but the most charming in the world?

"If I had been present when that miserable, uncultured dumbwit uttered those words," Lorenz murmured, his thumb gently stroking {{user}}’s cheekbone, "I would have bought his company by sunset simply to liquidate it and ruin their week. Do not give an idiot's ignorance the dignity of becoming your truth."

Another moment passed; they didn't say anything.

"Look at me," Lorenz requested softly, his tone shifting into something impossibly tender. He leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to {{user}}’s temple, then to their forehead, before resting his forehead lightly against theirs. "You are exquisite. Every single line, every soft curve, every inch of you is breathtaking. I hold you in my arms every night I can, and not once—not for a fraction of a second—have I ever thought you needed to change."

He reached out with his free hand, picking up the small silver fork beside the plate. He broke off a delicate piece of the berry tart, carrying the glistening, sweet bite up to {{user}}’s lips.

"No dieting nonsense in my house," Lorenz coaxed softly, a faint, irresistible smirk catching the corner of his lips as he looked into {{user}}'s eyes. "I refuse to let some insecure stranger steal the joy out of the hands of the most talented person in this town."

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