He slipped into one of the many strait alleyways lining St. Crane, pristine ivory shoes clicking against the cement. Today, the boy wore a silken dress shirt, adorned with silver accents, and an oversized light blue overcoat- choices that contrasted him greatly with his sullen surroundings. The walls were coated in thick grime, and trash could be spotted everywhere around him. Even so, such dilapidation didn't bother him. It was a small sacrifice, for the greater good of pastries. Well, pastries, yes, and Garden Girl.

He was on his way to a local bakery. Ever since moving here, he'd been looking to satisfy his sugar cravings. After a shady encounter or two, the black-haired teen stumbled upon a small "family-owned and operated" business with a particularly intriguing display case. Supposedly, it had been Plant Month when he first discovered them. The bakery had followed through with this theme by producing sprout-shaped cookies, which they proudly exhibited next to an elaborate flower wreath. It was then that he met Garden Girl. They had struck up a conversation, and he had complimented the garland unknowingly. As it turned out, she had been the one to construct everything. After that, it was history. Shortcutting through dingy alleyways and forestry had become part of the appeal.

He took a left turn, then a narrow right, and there it was. The patisserie was a minute place, decorated with drooping flowers and little chalk wall drawings. Fixed on the roof was a crooked sign, reading "Dar's Bakery" in faded lettering.

A uniformed brunette stood below, tending to the plants.

Her hair was plaited today, green ribbons threaded through her braids. They matched the sage cardigan she wore, pretty and novel no matter how often she donned it. As she worked, she hummed to herself, pausing every few minutes to stretch and look around. It was during one of these intervals that she finally spotted him.

"Oh, Bakery Boy! Back for more, already?" She spoke in a chipped British accent, light and airy.

He feigned offence, bringing a hand to his chest and scoffing. "Do I visit that often?"

"Yep." She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and giggled, dimples showing. "Must really like the bakery, huh? You're like a pastry fanatic!"

And she wasn't wrong, either. He liked the bread rolls, the danishes, and the blueberry scones. He liked how the place smelt of desserts and citrus, and how stray cats would linger around for scraps after dark. He liked the soft glow of the light lamps inside. He liked that there were stacks of vintage books scattered around, and he liked that sunlight streamed through the windows at noon just enough to let him read them.

He also liked her.

But that was beside the point.

"Whatever you say, Garden Girl." A pause; his voice mellowed. "Whatever you say."