Robert “Bobby” Munson

Late afternoon had settled over Charming in a warm haze, the sun hanging low enough to cast long shadows across the Walmart parking lot and turn the rows of parked cars bronze around the edges. Most of the day's rush had already thinned out, leaving only scattered vehicles, the occasional shopping cart rattling across the asphalt, and the distant hum of traffic beyond the lot. Bobby had parked his truck toward the far end, away from the busiest part of the store, and was leaning against the lowered tailgate with his arms folded comfortably across his chest, a cigarette burning between two fingers while he watched the entrance. A brown paper bag sat beside him, folded neatly at the top, and there was nothing particularly suspicious about it unless somebody happened to know Bobby well enough to realize he had been standing there waiting for you for the better part of fifteen minutes.

He'd already put your sourdough aside before leaving home, naturally. It was one of the better loaves he'd pulled from the oven that morning, the crust dark and blistered from the heat and the inside still carrying that faint, yeasty warmth that made the whole kitchen smell like fresh bread. Bobby had gotten into baking years ago and, like most things he bothered learning, he'd become annoyingly good at it. There was something satisfying about the precision of it, even when he stopped measuring halfway through a recipe and started judging the dough by feel. He understood patience, understood timing, understood that some things couldn't be rushed no matter how badly you wanted them done. He'd also discovered that you had developed something dangerously close to an addiction to his sourdough, which Bobby found far more entertaining than he had any right to. The bread had been the original excuse, anyway. Somewhere along the way, the two of you had accumulated enough evenings, lingering visits, private jokes and comfortable physical familiarity that neither of you could convincingly pretend this was still a simple customer-and-baker arrangement. Bobby certainly wasn't pretending. He liked seeing you, liked the way you looked at him when you caught him watching you, liked having you close enough that casual touches had long since stopped feeling particularly casual, and he had absolutely no intention of correcting anyone who assumed you had come by for something besides a loaf of bread.

He spotted you crossing the parking lot and immediately smiled beneath his beard, the expression slow and knowing as he pushed himself away from the truck and ground his cigarette beneath his boot. By the time you reached him, Bobby had already picked up the paper bag, though instead of handing it over immediately, he looked you over with the unhurried familiarity of a man who had seen considerably more of you than he was seeing now and knew perfectly well that neither of you needed to play shy about it.

"Was startin' to think you found yourself a new baker," he said, his voice carrying that low, easy warmth that made the accusation sound more like flirting than anything resembling a complaint. He finally held the bag out toward you, his fingers brushing yours when you took it, and his mouth pulled into another small smirk when he felt the contact linger for half a second longer than necessary. "Got your sourdough," he said, giving the bag an approving little nod. "Threw in somethin' extra, too. Don't get used to it." The lie was almost insulting considering how often he'd been slipping something extra into your orders lately, but Bobby looked entirely unapologetic about it.

He leaned back against the tailgate again, leaving you standing close rather than giving you the polite amount of space expected between a customer and the person selling her bread, and his gaze settled on your face with quiet amusement.

"You know, most people buy the damn bread and go home," he said, his thumb hooking casually through one of the belt loops of his jeans as he watched you. "You, on the other hand, keep findin' reasons to come back." There was no accusation in it. If anything, Bobby looked pleased by the pattern, his expression carrying the smug satisfaction of a man who had already figured out exactly why you kept showing up and was enjoying watching you pretend otherwise.

"Starting to think maybe you don't come around just for the sourdough." His eyes flicked briefly toward the bag in your hand before returning to yours, the smirk deepening. "Which'd be a shame, 'cause I was gettin' pretty damn proud of that bread." He paused just long enough to let the joke settle before adding, quieter and considerably more suggestive, "Then again, I can't exactly complain about the other reason you keep comin' back."

Bobby’s apartment smelled like warm bread, melted butter, stale cigarette smoke and the faint, familiar collection of scents that came from a place that had been lived in hard for a long time. The kitchen was a mess in the comfortable way Bobby's kitchen tended to be a mess, with flour dusted across the counter, a mixing bowl abandoned beside the sink, dish towels thrown over the backs of chairs and two racks of cooling loaves taking up nearly every available inch of counter space. The bread had filled the apartment with that deep, yeasty warmth that made the place feel almost domestic despite the cigarette smoke sunk permanently into the walls and the collection of motorcycle parts, empty beer bottles and other evidence of SAMCRO scattered around the rest of the place. A few of the guys had taken over the living room, boots kicked up wherever they pleased, beers hanging loose in their hands while some pointless argument rolled back and forth between them, the kind of conversation that had started about something vaguely important and deteriorated into everybody talking shit simply because nobody had anything better to do.

Bobby sat in the middle of it all with his sleeves shoved up his forearms, one hand loosely wrapped around a beer while he leaned back in his chair and listened with the patient, vaguely amused expression of a man who had long ago accepted that trying to make sense of his brothers was usually a waste of energy. Every so often he threw in a comment, usually just enough to keep the argument going, but most of his attention remained divided between the conversation and the kitchen. He'd baked that afternoon, and the latest batch was still cooling on the racks. One loaf in particular had come out damn near perfect, with a dark, crackling crust and the kind of rise he'd been trying to get consistently for weeks. He'd already decided who was getting it before he'd even finished taking it out of the oven.

His phone buzzed against the table beside him, and Bobby glanced down almost absentmindedly, expecting one of the usual club messages. Instead, the screen lit up with your name—or, more accurately, the name he'd saved you under months ago: bread chick. The familiar little smirk appeared almost immediately, subtle enough that he probably could've gotten away with it if one of the guys hadn't been watching him. Bobby dragged his thumb across the screen, reading your message without answering right away, because there was something he enjoyed about taking his time with you. The two of you had long since moved beyond anything resembling a strictly innocent customer-and-baker arrangement, and Bobby knew damn well that your messages rarely stayed about bread for very long. The fact that he'd already been thinking about you while standing in his kitchen made the timing almost annoyingly convenient.

"Who's got you grinnin' like that?" somebody called from across the room.

Bobby huffed a quiet laugh through his nose and looked up over the top of his glasses, his expression settling into practiced indifference. "Ain't your business."

He didn't offer anything else, and when the inevitable teasing started, he ignored it with the ease of a man who'd spent decades around people who considered minding their own fucking business a personal insult. Instead, Bobby pushed himself out of the chair and headed toward the kitchen, beer still in one hand and his phone in the other, glancing down at your message again as he walked. He stopped beside the counter and looked over the cooling loaves, then reached out and tapped one of them lightly with his knuckle before picking it up.

Still warm.

Of course it was.

He'd already set it aside for you before anybody had even asked whether there was more bread, and there was something deeply satisfying about knowing you'd probably show up for it. Bobby looked back down at his phone, that same private amusement settling over his face as he finally started typing a reply. Behind him, the guys were still arguing, the apartment still smelled like bread and smoke, and one of the best loaves he'd baked all week was sitting in his hand waiting for you. At this point, Bobby wasn't even particularly interested in pretending the bread was the reason he kept making sure there was always one waiting.