The Grey Eyes That Loved Me

The scent of freshly baked bread was the closest thing Skylar had ever found to peace. It wrapped around him every morning before the sun had fully risen, filling every corner of the little café he had built with his own two hands. Butter melting into warm croissants, cinnamon dancing through the air, sweet vanilla drifting from cooling cakes—it was a melody he never grew tired of hearing. Some people woke to alarms. Skylar woke to bread. A small smile tugged at his lips as he pulled another tray of sourdough from the oven. The crust crackled softly as cool air kissed its golden surface, earning an approving nod from him. “Perfect.” Just like his mother had taught him. His fingers brushed against the edge of the tray for a brief second before setting it down on the cooling rack. Seven years had passed, yet every loaf he baked still carried a piece of her. She had believed bread could heal people. He believed she had been right. The bell above the café door chimed. “Morning, Boss!” Skylar looked over his shoulder to find Mia rushing inside with her usual messy ponytail and oversized apron slung over one shoulder. “You’re early,” she laughed. “I could say the same.” She sniffed dramatically before placing a hand over her heart. “I knew it. Cinnamon rolls.” “They’re in the second oven.” “You are officially my favourite person.” Skylar chuckled quietly. “I thought I already was.” “You are,” she answered without hesitation. “But cinnamon rolls secure the title.” Their laughter blended with the gentle hum of mixers and coffee machines as more employees wandered in, each greeting him with warm smiles. Nobody here called him “Sir.” Nobody feared him. Nobody lowered their eyes when he walked into a room. They simply called him Sky. It was enough. More than enough. The café came alive within the hour. Regulars lined up outside before opening, chatting amongst themselves while peeking through the large windows. An elderly couple who came every Tuesday. University students who claimed his coffee kept them alive through exams. Children who insisted his chocolate-chip cookies were magical. Skylar knew nearly every customer by name. “Good morning, Mrs Ellis.” “My usual, Sky?” “You didn’t even have to ask.” “You spoil me.” “I’ve been accused of worse.” Another laugh. Another smile. Another ordinary morning. Exactly the way he liked it. People often asked why someone so young owned one of the most beloved cafés in the city. They assumed luck. They assumed money. They assumed family connections. The truth was far simpler. Years of flour-covered clothes. Burned hands. Sleepless nights. Recipes rewritten dozens of times. And one promise made to the woman who had taught him that kindness could exist even in the darkest places. His mother. She had loved baking with every piece of her soul. When he was little, she would sit him on the kitchen counter, dust flour across his nose, and tell him that every loaf carried a little bit of the baker’s heart. “So always bake with love,” she’d whisper. He never forgot. Not even after she was gone. Especially not after she was gone. The smile on his face softened. There had been a time when his hands smelled of something other than butter and vanilla. Gunpowder. Smoke. Blood. He squeezed the piping bag a little tighter. No. He refused to think about that life. Not here. Not anymore. He had buried that boy seven years ago. At eighteen years old, he had walked away from everything. His name. His fortune. His inheritance. His family. Most people would’ve called him insane. Who walked away from wealth beyond imagination? Who left behind private estates, luxury cars and enough money to never work another day? Skylar did. Because none of it had been worth the cost. Not after watching his mother die. Not after witnessing violence become something so ordinary that people stopped flinching when blood stained the floor. His father had ruled an empire built on fear. His older brother had been raised to inherit it. Skylar had never belonged there. His heart had been too soft. Too gentle. Too unwilling to become another man capable of taking a life. So he’d left. Not in anger. Not in hatred. Simply… in grief. Surprisingly, no one had stopped him. His father had stood silently at the doorway that morning. His brother had hugged him longer than either of them cared to admit. Neither man begged him to stay. Neither tried to drag him back. They knew. They had seen what losing their mother had done to him. For the first time in his life, they respected his choice. And they never came looking for him. Exactly as he had asked. Seven peaceful years. Seven years of waking up to bread instead of bullets. Seven years of building a life that belonged entirely to him. He rarely even spoke his surname anymore. People knew him simply as Skylar. That was enough. His family name carried too much weight. Too much fear. Too many ghosts. The bell chimed again. A little girl wandered inside, no older than six, her tiny fingers wrapped tightly around her father’s hand. The moment she spotted Skylar, her entire face lit up. “The bread man!” Skylar laughed softly. “The bread man?” Her father looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry. She insists that’s your official title.” “I think it’s a wonderful title.” The little girl reached both arms toward him. Without thinking, Skylar crouched to her level. “Did you make the cookies?” “I did.” “Can I have the biggest one?” He pretended to think very hard. “Hmm… I suppose I can arrange that.” Her delighted squeal echoed through the café. Everyone smiled. Moments like these reminded him why he had chosen this life. Not because it was easy. Not because it erased the past. But because every loaf of bread, every birthday cake, every warm cup of coffee allowed him to give people something he had almost forgotten existed growing up. Comfort. Hope. Home. Skylar watched the little girl skip back to her father with a cookie nearly as large as her face. A gentle smile settled on his own. He had escaped a world built on fear. Here… He built one filled with warmth instead. And for the first time in a long time… He truly believed he’d never have to look back.