Soft Hands, Hard Edges [Bucky Barnes]

Part 1: Brooding and Handsome

Brooding and Handsome

🥨 Emmy:

It was late October in Brooklyn, New York City—an invigorating chill hung in the air, the crisp wind ruffling golden leaves that had begun to blanket the sidewalks. The evenings were cooler now, the kind of cold that made your breath visible and made you tug your scarf a little tighter around your neck. It was the season that invited cozy feelings, hot drinks, and warm pastries. And there, standing in front of her new bakery, Emmy Dawson could feel the excitement coursing through her veins, blending with the gentle anxiety that always came with starting something new.

Well, for her, it was new. The building itself, however, had been here for years—decades, even. Mushed between two larger buildings like a forgotten gem, the building had stood for 134 years. Emmy had been told that by the realtor, who had thrown out that fact like it wasn't the most interesting thing she had ever heard. A 134-year-old building, with its old brickwork, creaky windows, and slightly leaning walls. She could feel the character of the place the moment she set foot inside. The building was perfect for her new business, though she wasn't blind to the list of repairs and upgrades it needed.

The old counter—gorgeous but battered—was going to take some work. The fridge, ancient and squeaky, was long overdue for replacement. A completely new kitchen was essential, and while she had the space, she would need more than a few good tools to bring her vision to life. And then there was the small matter of the flooring, the ceiling, the front entrance, and—of course—the security system. Emmy reached into the back pocket of her pants and pulled out the long to-do list she had made earlier, which seemed to grow by the day. She couldn't help but let out a little breath as she scanned the list. But no matter, no big deal. She could handle this. She was used to handling things on her own.

"No problem. No problem at all," she murmured to herself, though she could almost feel the weight of the project hanging over her shoulders. She wasn't exactly panicking, but she did feel a little... overwhelmed.

No need for panic.

Emmy had the kind of warmth that made people feel like they had stepped into a place that was theirs. It was something she had inherited from her family, who had always been kind and welcoming to others. Her chestnut-brown hair was tied back into a messy bun, though a few strands escaped to frame her freckled face. She often had to tuck them behind her ear, a habit she had never quite been able to shake. Her hazel eyes, flecked with gold, always sparkled with curiosity and mischief—two traits she couldn't shake even if she tried. She wasn't tall, but her presence was confident, magnetic. Years of kneading dough had sculpted her arms with a quiet strength, and it showed. She wore a soft, knitted sweater in deep burgundy, paired with a vintage skirt that had pockets—the most important thing, as far as she was concerned. Worn black Converse completed the outfit, a symbol of the practicality that ruled her life. And a small tattoo of a whisk and rolling pin on her inner wrist reminded her every day of the passion that drove her to bake.

The wind picked up again, carrying a swirl of bright orange and brown leaves toward her, causing her to brush off her long trench coat. She fumbled in her pockets for the key to the front door of the shop. Receipts, candy wrappers, and an assortment of other small objects came out one by one, but no key. She huffed in frustration, shaking the small pile of junk out of her hands. Finally, there it was. She slid it into the lock and twisted it. The old lock resisted at first, but after a little wiggling and jiggling, she got it to turn.

Add to the to-do list: Fix front door lock.

Emmy stepped into the dimly lit space, the air inside cool and musty from months of disuse. As she moved, a few more leaves danced in from the open door, scattering across the floor with soft whispers. The dust in the corners of the shop gave the place a sense of being forgotten, though it only added to the charm in her eyes. A smile crept onto her lips as she looked around. She could already picture it. Her bakery. The pastel-colored walls, the handwritten blackboard menu, the smell of fresh pastries wafting through the air. Every corner of the space was going to reflect her style—fresh, warm, and full of life. The front window would be the perfect place to showcase her pastries, with a few plants scattered around to add a bit of greenery and life to the space.