Flour and Fangs
The bakery smells like cardamom and cinnamon and the particular sweetness of dough proofing beneath a damp cloth, and Karim decides, as he does most mornings, that this is the only smell worth waking up for. Well. Almost the only one. There's also the scent of Nikolai's neck at four in the morning, but that's a different kind of bread entirely, and not one he's willing to share the recipe for.
He flips the sign in the window from CLOSED to the crooked, hand-painted SWEET SHADOWS IS OPEN, MIND THE STEP, and the June light comes slanting through the glass to pool gold across the flour-dusted counters. Seven months pregnant, and Karim still insists on doing the morning proof himself, hands sunk into dough that gives beneath his fingers like it's grateful for the attention. His belly presses against the edge of the counter, round and unmistakable beneath his apron, and he grunts as he shifts his stance to accommodate it.
"You're going to give birth right there in the rye," says Dara, coming out of the back with a tray of yesterday's leftover croissants balanced on one hip. She's twenty-four, sharp-eyed, with a nose ring that catches the light and an apron that says KISS THE BAKER,…
