(I was inspired by a Tumblr post- Humanized! Also takes places during medieval times heehee)

  One deep breath in. Shoulders coiled back, chest puffed out- the warm, heavenly aromas of fresh baked bread. The cooking fire still blazing in the back, the poker and oven spatula cooling against the brick wall. A flour-stained apron, and flour still sticking to his hands, with its faint, starchy smell.

  A loaf of bread, fresh from the bread oven, sits on a wooden table, still smoking from the heat. The smoke drifts out towards the window, carrying with it the essence of the bakery itself. 

  It was the scent of home and security. Like a big, warm hug, or the touch of a soft, old blanket. The wooden walls are embedded with it, even when the fires are long dead. 

  Outside the window, people bustle about. Carts rattle on the cobblestone roads, and children horse around with each other. Ladies talk of their husbands and the latest news, and the men joke as they go to work. The morning sun casts long shadows on the ground, offering plenty of shade on the street.

  The baker holds the warm bread in his hands like he would a baby bird. His palms lay flat, and his thumbs brush the bread's top. He backs out of the bakery, and sets a brisk pace to the forge, which is just next door. The air around the forge is always warm, with the scent of manly smoke.

  A loud clang rings in the baker's ears, but he's used to it. Still, the sound of metal against metal rattles in his head and teeth. 

  He walks in and makes his presence known with a friendly shout. The blacksmith turns and smiles, his complexion dark by nature, and from the sweltering fires he works in front of all day. His body is muscular, but not bulging. Large enough to feel the sharp contours, but not so large that he looks threatening. He always has a shine to his skin.

  And despite the harsh nature of his occupation, the blacksmith's dark chocolate eyes are gentle; reassuring. They're like a promise to protect those who are close to him. An understanding that the natural is beautiful, and to live in harmony with it is the peak of mankind. The balance of life itself hangs in his eyes.

  His dreads are always done in a short ponytail, which leaves his sharp head shape very exposed. His stance is straight and tall, but it sometimes slips in casual life. He strides to the baker, his calloused hands held out.

  For a moment, their hands touch, as they always do during their exchange. The baker is careful to look just below the blacksmith's eyes, as to not freeze up under his gaze. For a pair of hands so scarred and rough, with tough skin built from years of smithing, hands with the texture of rocky cliffs, his touch is gentle.

  Like a butterfly landing on his fingertips, the baker takes the moment to soak in the beauty of it. Out of all people, the butterfly chooses him to land on. Though his hands are still dirty with flour and bread dough, the butterfly lingers on him, in a moment of pure wonder.

  And he sinks when it's over. The blacksmith's fingers brush the baker's in goodbye, and the blacksmith graciously thanks him. They pass their time with short conversation between bites of soft bread, before starting their work day.

  The next morning, before dawn even breaks, the blacksmith enters the bakery. In his hands is a small dagger, hiding in its sheath. His skin shines, and the ponytail is rather loose. He hands it to the baker in a ceremonious fashion, telling him it's for protection. 

  With trembling hands, the baker scoops the dagger up, afraid to ruin something so perfect. Silently, the dagger slides out of its sheath, and the moonlight gives it a slight glint.

  Even in the darkness, the intricacy is clear. With ornate patterns of flowers and leaves, teardrops and flames, it's so much more complicated and beautiful than anything the baker's seen. It's so much more complicated and beautiful than anything the blacksmith has ever made.

  Their eyes drift to each other. Both brown, one darker than the other. And in that instant, they know their feelings for one another. The reason why the dagger was made. The reason for the daily gift of freshly baked bread. The reason for their lingering touches and the heavy air when they part.

  The blacksmith lifts the baker's chin smoothly, slowly. He leans in, and the baker meets him halfway. They step closer together and embrace, safe in each other's arms. Only their lips meet, but it lingers like sweet chocolate. It feels safe. It feels like love.

  Though time passes, and the townsfolk wonder why the men haven't found wives, their relationship remains secret. Sacred to only them. Neither of them mind; content with what they have, and content with each other. And in the end, it's the only thing that matters to them.