The Bakery [Milex]

Introductions

It was so hot. So incredibly, maddeningly, desert-like hot that all Miles wanted to do was run outside and jump in the nearest pond, clothes and all.
But instead, he was locked up in a kitchen, a bakery for crying out loud, with ovens and people and dough that needed kneading. He'd been here for almost the whole day, and if that wasn't torture enough already, the temperature had made the baked goods go crazy.
The dough wouldn't rise. Chocolate coatings were melting before his eyes. No way any of the mousses was going to stay in form.
And then there were the macaroons. The delicate cookies were Miles' speciality; no one else in the bakery was allowed to make them. They required a lot of work and precision, and were quite difficult to bake, but Miles could make them with his eyes closed. He loved the concentration it took, loved the possibilities it gave him concerning colours and flavours. While most of the goods in the bakery were day-to-day routine work, his macaroons were something else, a form of expression, a work of art.

And today, they were an absolute disaster.

Exasperated,  Miles wiped his forehead with his sleeve, leaving a smudge of white flour on his face. The heat was making his filling way too fluid, and no matter how long he stuck it in the freezer, it wouldn't get right.
But it had to. He had to finish these bloody macaroons before he could go home. He had promised himself that, and even though his boss had told him he should just leave them be and try again tomorrow, that there wasn't any use in trying with this heat.

But what she didn't know, was that Miles didn't have a choice.
There was someone who needed these cookies, and Miles wouldn't let him down. 

***

Every single Thursday, Alex made his way to the little bakery downtown, a small shop which outside walls were covered with ivy and rambler roses, pots with small yellow flowers next to the door, the flowers' perfume mixing with the scent of freshly baked bread. Inside, it was always warm, even in the winter, and the various types of cookies, cakes and bread were displayed in coolers or in wooden racks. The cosy atmosphere always made him feel like he'd stepped into another world, a world of kindness and flour and sugary sweets. A fairytale world where he could forget his work, studies and other responsibilities, and where he could let himself drown in scents and flavours and the sounds of the bakers behind the closed door, kneading and closing fridge doors. Sometimes, he'd hear someone humming, a soft sound of concentration and contentness that never failed to make him smile. So even though the bakery was actually way too expensive for a poor student like him, he kept returning, avoiding life for as long as he was behind that door, and whenever he ate one of their delicacies.

Driven by his desire to escape the daily grind of his life, and the tumultuous presence of his roommates, Alex had come to the bakery more and more, until he spent almost all his spare hours between the baked goods.
Sometimes, he'd bring the books his study required him to read, and sat on a little stool in the back of the shop, next to the window. Whoever was behind the counter would usually make him a coffee as he used the calm atmosphere in the bakery to concentrate. Of course, most of the time he'd end up chatting with James or Eva and losing all attention for his work, but he'd still leave with a greater sense of accomplishment than if he'd studied anywhere else.

By now, every employee of the little shop knew of him, as he always made sure to greet everyone he saw. There were James and Eva, who took turns standing behind the counter. James was incredibly handsome, and Alex would be lying if he'd say he didn't have a small crush on him. With his strong jawline and impeccable charm, it was almost impossible not to.
Eva was lovely too, but Alex could not imagine her as anything but a friend, mostly since she'd told him so many embarrassing stories about her exes that the thought of ending up like one of them was enough to scare him off.