The first time she walks into your bakery, you nearly drop the tray of fresh muffins you're carrying. She's tall, imposing in her work boots and navy coveralls, with stormy, grey eyes that makes you straighten up. Engine grease smudges her knuckles on her right hand, while her left arm is a masterwork of mechanical engineering – a prosthetic that moves with fluid grace as she pushes the door shut behind her. You find yourself captivated by the way the metal joints catch the morning light, but it's really her eyes that keep your attention, impossibly gentle when they meet yours.
"Morning," you manage, carefully setting down the tray. "What can I get you?"
"Coffee. Black." Her voice is rough velvet. "And whatever you recommend." She flexes her hands, and you notice the calluses there, the kind that come from years of honest work.
You find yourself reaching for your best blueberry muffin before you can think twice. "Just came out of the oven," you say, and when her fingers brush yours as she takes the bag, your heart skips.
She becomes a regular after that. Every morning, like clockwork, always earlier than the usual rush. You start getting up even earlier to make sure the muffins are fresh when she arrives. She never says it, but you catch the way her lips curl up when she smells them baking.
⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄
"You're here early again, Sevika," you tease one morning, already having her usual ready. You've fallen into a routine with her, expecting her every morning and she's there every time without fail. And you were suddenly available to cover anyone's shift, specifically the mornings which everyone hates.
The bakery's empty save for the two of you, soft music playing from the speakers overhead. You're swaying slightly as you wipe down the counter, pretending not to notice the way her eyes follow your movements.
"Early shift," she says, but you both know it's a lie. She's been finding more and more excuses to linger lately, sometimes still carrying the scent of motor oil and metal from yesterday's work. "Nice song."
"Want to dance?" The words slip out before you can stop them, playful and dangerous.
She chuckles, low and warm. "Careful, sugar. I might take you up on that someday." Her work-worn hands wrap around the coffee cup, and you find yourself wondering how they'd feel against your skin.
The flirting becomes a game between you. She finds new ways to make you blush, you find new recipes to tempt her sweet tooth. Sometimes she comes in after her shift, coveralls tied around her waist and white tank top showing off strong arms earned from years of mechanical work. You have a staring problem, but who could blame you. Sevika surely wouldn't, she loves it actually.
She almost loves it as much as you thinking you're not obvious with your ogling. Lingering a little too long at a table beside her while cleaning up, counting the same bills at the register while stealing glances, and quickly looking away whenever you get caught. Adorable, really.
You pretend not to notice how much she enjoys your antics over the rim of her cup, a lazy smile on her lips.
⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄
It's a rainy evening when things take a turn. You're closing up, the sky outside already dark, when the bell above the door chimes.
"We just closed—" you start to say, then see who it is. "Sevika?"
She's standing there in the doorway, raindrops catching in her hair, having clearly come straight from work. "Thought you might want some company while you close up."
You smile, warmth coloring your tone. "I wouldn't mind that."
She helps you stack chairs, wipes down tables while you count the register. You try not to stare at how her muscles flex with each movement, at the grease stain on her shoulder that somehow makes her even more attractive. When you're done, she insists on walking you home.
Under the shelter of your umbrella, she walks so close your shoulders brush, until finally, she wraps her prosthetic arm around your waist, tugging you firmly against her side.
"Don't want you getting wet," she murmurs, mechanical fingers curling protectively around your hip. You're suddenly hyper-aware of how warm she is, how perfectly you fit tucked against her like this.
"Says the woman who's getting soaked," you tease, slightly moving to adjust the umbrella. You're starting to get distracted by the way her tank top is starting to cling to her shoulders, how raindrops are catching in her hair.
She just hums, seemingly unbothered by the rain hitting her back. "Worth it."
The city lights reflect off the wet pavement, making everything feel dreamlike. You're so caught up in the feeling of her holding you close, in the gentle whir of her mechanical arm and the steady rhythm of her breathing, that you don't even notice she's keeping the umbrella tilted to cover you more than herself. It's only when you reach your door that you realize her back is half-soaked while you're perfectly dry. Before you can protest, velvet cuts through your thoughts.
"You know," she says, her tone low and warm, "I haven't had a decent morning in months. Not until I found your bakery."
You turn to face her, key forgotten in your hand, heart hammering so loud you're sure she must hear it. A newfound bravery finding you. "Just the bakery?"
"No." Her hand comes up to cup your cheek, rough calluses gentle against your skin as her thumb brushes your lower lip. The touch sends electricity down your spine, and you can't help but lean into it. "Not just the bakery."
You're suddenly very aware of how close she is, how the rain has made her white tank top cling to her shoulders, how her eyes have gone dark and longing. She takes a step forward, and your back meets your front door with a soft thud that pulls a surprised breath from your lungs.
"Would you like to come in?" The words tumble out before you can stop them, before you can make them sound smoother or more sophisticated. "I, um — I mean, I have this new recipe I've been working on? For snickerdoodles?" Oh god, you're rambling now, but you can't seem to stop, not with the way she's looking at you like she wants to devour you whole. "They're probably still warm, and I know you like cinnamon, because you always get this little smile when I make the cinnamon rolls, and —"
She laughs, and it's the sweetest sound you've ever heard, warm and rich and achingly fond. Her free hand comes up to brace against the door beside your head, effectively caging you in. "Is that what we're calling this, sugar?"
Your face burns, but you can't help grinning up at her, feeling giddy and nervous and wanting all at once. "Well," you say, fingers playing with the zipper of her coveralls, "maybe I just really want you to come inside and... taste test some cookies?"
"Just cookies?" she murmurs, leaning in until her lips are barely a breath from yours.
"I..." Your fingers curl into the fabric of her coveralls, tugging her closer. "I might have some other things I want you to taste."
Sevika choked back a groan that sends heat pooling in your stomach. She leans in, metal hand coming up to cradle the back of your head while her other hand stays braced against the door. For a moment, she just holds you there, her breath hot against your lips, close enough that you can feel the tension thrumming through her body.
"You've drive me crazy," she murmurs, nose brushing against yours. "Every morning, watching you bounce around that bakery in your little apron, flour on your cheek, looking so damn pretty..."
You whimper, trying to close that last bit of distance, but she holds you still, a smirk playing at her lips. "Sevika..."
"So needy" Her thumb strokes along your jaw. "Tell me what you need, sugar."
"You, please," you whine, straining against her grip, and she laughs, low and dark, before finally, finally kissing you.
It's everything you've imagined and nothing like you expected. Her lips are soft but demanding, and she kisses like she's trying to memorize the taste of you. The cool metal of her prosthetic fingers contrasts beautifully with the warmth of her mouth, making you shiver as they tangle in your hair. You arch into her, hands sliding up her rain-damp shoulders to pull her closer.
When she nips at your bottom lip, you gasp, and she takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. You're dimly aware that you're making little desperate sounds into her mouth, but you can't bring yourself to care, not when she's pressing you more firmly against the door, not when her thigh is sliding between—
"Wait," you pant, pulling back just enough to fumble with your keys. "Inside. We should— inside."
"Good idea,” she rasps, but she doesn't stop touching you, trailing her lips down your neck as you try to get the key in the lock. Your hands are shaking, and it doesn't help that her teeth are grazing that sweet spot just below your ear.
You finally manage to get the door open, and you both stumble inside with a surprised laugh. She kicks the door shut behind you, and you have just enough presence of mind to drop your keys in the general direction of the side table before she's pressing you up against the nearest wall, metal hand already working at the buttons of your shirt.
"So," she murmurs against your throat, "about those cookies..."
You laugh breathlessly, hooking your fingers into her belt loops to pull her hips flush against yours. "Just shut up and kiss me."
She grins against your skin. "Yes, ma'am."