Chapter Text
The bell above the door rang out at precisely 8:07 a.m.
Albedo didn’t have to look up from the espresso machine to recognize the voice.
“I’ll have the usual.” said the voice from the counter.
Of course.
Scaramouche always came at 8:07. Never at 8:06. Never at 8:08. Black coffee, no sugar. He’d stand with one hand in his coat pocket as if the world was a mild annoyance to him. He never smiled at the other baristas.
But he always looked at Albedo.
⸻
The café-bakery was named Chalk & Crumb, a small café-bakery nestled between a bookstore and a florist. The owner, Ms. Alice, had a policy that made the café lively:
Every week, each employee had to bake one original dish. It would be displayed with their name on a handwritten card. If it sold well enough, it could become the next week’s specialty.
“Creativity keeps people curious,” Ms. Alice liked to say.
Albedo liked the policy. Precision and experimentation were his favorite things.
Last week, he’d baked a lavender-honey tart with a delicate brûléed top. It had sold out before noon for three days straight.
And that was when Scaramouche had tried it.
⸻
“You’re staring again,” Kaeya whispered from beside him as Albedo steamed milk.
“I am not.”
“He only orders from you. You realize that, right?”
Albedo did realize that.
Scaramouche never let anyone else take his order if Albedo was on shift. He pretended not to care—sometimes even sighed dramatically if there was a line—but he always waited.
Albedo set the black coffee on the counter.
Scaramouche’s fingers touched his as he reached for it.
A pause. Just half a second too long.
“Are you baking something new this week?” Scaramouche asked, his eyes drifting towards the display case.
Albedo blinked.
“You noticed the schedule.”
“I noticed the tart was gone.” Scaramouche said. “It was… acceptable.”
Kaeya snorted from behind the pastry case.
Albedo tilted his head slightly. “That’s high praise.”
Scaramouche huffed. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
But he didn’t look away.
⸻
This week, Albedo had chosen something different.
A dark chocolate sea-salt croissant loaf—layered, rich, with just enough bitterness to balance the sweetness. He’d tested the dough three times before deciding on the final proofing time.
He placed the first sliced loaf in the display case with a small card:
Baker of the Week: Albedo – Nocturne Loaf
Scaramouche came in at 8:07 as always.
He stopped mid-step when he saw it.
“…Nocturne?”
“Chocolate croissant loaf.” Albedo said calmly. “It pairs well with black coffee.”
Scaramouche narrowed his eyes. “Are you suggesting my order?”
“I’m optimizing your experience.”
A faint flush crept up Scaramouche’s neck.
“Fine,” he muttered. “One slice.”
He took a bite.
Albedo tried not to stare.
Tried.
The smallest change flickered across Scaramouche’s face—his brows relaxed, his eyes widening just slightly before he covered it up.
“…You’re insufferable.” Scaramouche said.
“Because?”
“Because now I have to come back tomorrow.”
Kaeya leaned over the counter again. “You already come back every day.”
Scaramouche gave him a glare that could slice bread.
Albedo suppressed the smile that threatened to break through.
⸻
By Thursday, the Nocturne Loaf was almost sold out every day.
Ms. Alice clapped her hands in delight. “Looks like we have next week’s specialty!”
Scaramouche stood by, acting as if he was scrolling through his phone but definitely eavesdropping.
“Congratulations,” he said dryly when the owner was out of earshot. “You’ve monopolized my mornings.”
“You’re free to try someone else’s dish.” Albedo said calmly.
Scaramouche paused.
“…I prefer consistency.”
There it was again—that small truth he tried to hide behind his sarcasm.
Albedo wiped his hands on a towel. “I’m working on a new recipe after closing.”
Scaramouche looked up. “You are?”
“Yes. It may fail.”
“…Can I stay?”
The words came out softer than usual.
Albedo paused.
The café lights were warm in the late afternoon, dust motes drifting gold through the air. Outside, the street was muffled with the sound of city life.
“I suppose,” Albedo said, just as softly, “that feedback is valuable.”
Scaramouche tried to keep his expression neutral.
He failed.
⸻
The café was different after closing, more intimate and quiet.
Albedo tied his apron strings tighter and started working on dough. Scaramouche sat at the counter, head resting on his hand, observing.
“You’re particular.” Scaramouche said.
Albedo smiled.
“Baking is chemistry.” Albedo said. “Precision is key.”
“And if it doesn’t work?”
“Then I adjust.”
Scaramouche hummed. “Must be nice.”
Albedo looked up. “What?”
“Being able to fix things that don’t turn out right.”
The vulnerability escaped Scaramouche’s notice just in time.
Albedo didn’t call him on it.
Instead, he cut a small piece of the test pastry—a cinnamon and cardamom swirl—and set it on a plate in front of him.
“Tell me what you think.”
Scaramouche took a bite.
His eyes went wide again.
“…It’s good.” he said grudgingly. “Better than good.”
Albedo leaned in, interested. “Too sweet?”
“No.”
“Too dense?”
“No.”
“Then?”
Scaramouche looked up at him.
“You’re going to make it impossible for me to go anywhere else.”
The air between them narrowed.
Warmed.
Albedo thought about that for a moment.
“You don’t seem like someone who likes change.” He said.
“I don’t.”
“Then perhaps,” Albedo said softly, “you don’t have to.”
Silence.
Soft. Electric.
Scaramouche looked away first, but he didn’t budge.
“…If this becomes next week’s specialty.” he muttered, “I’m taking credit for quality control.”
Albedo smiled fully this time—rare and soft.
“Of course.” he said. “My most loyal customer.”
Scaramouche’s ears turned pink.
“Shut up.”
But he was smiling too.
And the next morning, at exactly 8:07, the bell rang again.