❝ The painter brings Hvitserk a painting every few weeks. This time, it comes with a request. ❞
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Every day, the bakery had a visitor.
She wore bright yellow converse, jeweled by hand with splashes of paint. Her skirt and top were usually splattered with the latest swatch of paint. She was an art student, studying the finer arts of painting. But she made the most beautiful paintings. Hvitserk had them. All of them up for sale in his bakery.
Art by (Y/N) (L/N), half of the proceeds to this or that project.
The other half would go to support you and your bakery addiction. Hvitserk runs the shop with his ex-girlfriend, Thora. The Butterfly. He bends from the back with his latest delivery in sugar, flour and random candies that he would have to bag up in clear cellophane bags for sale.
"We wrote down the wrong–" he turns the corner, yelping in surprise when you turn around the brick corner with your leather bag over your shoulder. He drops the open bag of flour onto the ground, dusting your sneakers in the white powder. It plumes, catching in his nose.
"Fuck!" He sneezes so cutely.
"I'm sorry!" You say, leaning down to pluck the bag off the ground.
"No– uh,"
Hvitserk dips down. His cigarette drops from behind his ear. He picks up the half-full bag, his floured hands on the tear. "(Y/N), why are you here?"
You slap your hands. A puff of dusty air shakes free the flour from your hands. Then you alternate back to your bag, pulling free a portrait style drawing. He recognizes who it is immediately. Him... folding dough with that cheesy smile. For a moment, he feels like a hot chick.
"I came to bring you this." You say. "It was for my midterm. The colours are all wrong but–"
"It's perfect." He sets the flour on the countertop. Like any of your portraits, the colours were bright and obnoxious, contrasting behind the charcoal back. "Uh, I like the butterfly."
"It's Thora," you laugh. He squints to look at it on his knuckles, twisting the picture.
"Oh yeah," Hvitserk laughs. He puts it up on one of the nails on the wall, twisting it to the side to set it perfect. Thora! He calls her over to look at his portrait. From his apron, he picks out the money from one of your pictures that had sold. Thora clicks over on her wedges, giggling about how pretty the portrait was. He turns to hand you your money.
"I was also hoping!" You shout. He turns his head, slow and cute.
"Yeah?"
"Um– that you... that you could be my date?"
"Date?" He repeats.
"For my showing." You rush out, glancing to Thora who looks out from the corner of her eyes. You hope you haven't offended her and so you quickly run your hands over your buttercup yellow skirt. "I mean unless you're dating Thora you don't have to I mean–"
"Wait." Hvitserk holds out his hands, laughing. "Are you asking me on a date?"
Your cheeks flush. That's exactly what you were trying to do. But it doesn't sound right. It came out better in your mind. You grip the edge of your skirt, shifting your strap on your shoulder and pivoting on your heel. You head for the door. "I'm sorry this was a bad idea–"
He reaches out, grasping your wrist and twisting you around. He places a small kiss on your forehead.
