(AN: this is dedicated to happy_1948, for leaving a review! Enjoy!)
Pressure had weight.
Elias could feel it pressing down on him as he stood behind his desk station, the one spot in the shop where he could see everything—every table, every customer, every small shift in the room.
Normally, that vantage point calmed him.
Today, it did the opposite.
He poured himself a cup of what he thought was milk.
He took a slice of what he thought was his favorite egg pie.
His eyes never left the table near the window.
Three men sat there.
Relaxed.
Casual.
Comfortable.
Steven Rogers.
Tony Stark.
Nick Fury.
Just a normal group of customers, Elias told himself.
Just… probably discussing how to take me down.
The pressure spiked.
He cut into the slice on his plate, scooped up a generous bite, and brought it to his mouth, already bracing for the familiar calming taste that usually smoothed his nerves.
Instead—
Bittersweet.
Dark.
Heavy.
Unforgiving.
Dark Chocolate.
It was a brownie.
Elias froze mid-chew.
Then he coughed.
Hard.
The sound came out wrong, strangled, and his face twisted into an expression so tragically offended that it made his employees look over in alarm.
"Boss?" one of them whispered.
Elias tried to swallow.
Regretted it instantly.
He coughed again, louder this time, shoulders hunching as if the brownie itself had personally insulted his ancestry.
Mara was at his side in seconds. "Are you okay?"
He nodded quickly, maybe too quickly, and reached for his cup.
Milk.
Milk would fix this.
He took a sip.
Bitterness exploded across his tongue.
Coffee.
Strong coffee.
Elias choked.
Some of it went out through his mouth.
Some of it betrayed him and escaped through his nose.
Mara stared, halfway between concern and disbelief.
"Sir—"
She didn't wait for an answer.
A glass of water was placed in front of him with professional decisiveness.
Elias took it with shaking hands and drank slowly, carefully, like a man defusing a bomb.
One swallow.
Then another.
His breathing evened out, and the burning receded.
He exhaled.
"…I'm fine," he said hoarsely.
That seemed to calm him more than anyone else.
.
.
.
At the table by the window, Tony Stark leaned back in his chair, fork idly spinning between his fingers.
"…Is it just me," he said, eyes flicking toward the counter, "or is our baker having some kind of existential crisis?"
Steve Rogers glanced over, watching Elias dab at his mouth with a napkin.
"He wasn't like that earlier."
Tony raised a brow.
"So it's a me thing?"
"No," Steve said evenly.
Then he added, "It started when he showed up."
Fury didn't look at him.
"Careful, Rogers."
Steve met his gaze without flinching.
"You know I'm right."
Tony smirked.
"Aw, Cap. Don't tell me the scary eye is stressing our pastry chef."
Fury ignored him.
.
.
.
Earlier.
Steve had just settled into his seat, his order taken by Rhea with a smile that bordered on professional admiration.
He adjusted in the chair, still not used to how small most places felt.
Then the bell rang.
Tony Stark walked in like the shop had been expecting him.
"Sweets, caffeine, and mild existential clarity," Tony announced.
"I'll take the usual."
"Of course," Elias replied, already moving.
Tony turned—and caught sight of Steve.
Recognition flickered.
One of Fury's plays to have here was this guy.
Tony smiled, sharp and amused, then nodded toward Elias.
"Excuse me."
He crossed the room and slid into the seat across from Steve like it had always been his.
"Cap'n."
"Stark."
That was it.
No fanfare.
No tension.
Just acknowledgment.
They talked—quietly—after Tony's order arrived, Elias himself setting the plate down with practiced ease.
That was when Elias decided he needed egg pie.
Then the bell rang again.
Nick Fury entered.
The room didn't go quiet, but it shifted.
Elias caught it immediately and raised a hand toward Mara.
"Please."
Mara nodded and moved to serve the Director of SHIELD.
Elias turned back to his station, reaching automatically for what he thought was milk, for what he thought was egg pie—
His focus split.
On Fury.
On Stark.
On Rogers.
On the table that now put too much pressure on a simple baker of a simple bakery shop.
And that was how milk became coffee.
That was how egg pie became brownies.
And that was how Elias Mercer nearly choked himself under the weight of three men who absolutely, definitely were not here by coincidence.
According to himself.
.
.
.
The bell above the door rang one last time that night.
Then silence.
Real, honest silence—the kind Elias hadn't realized he'd been craving until it finally arrived.
The table by the window was empty.
No billionaire.
No super soldier.
No one-eyed director quietly judging the structural integrity of his bakery.
Just crumbs, empty cups, and the faint warmth left behind by people who had already gone.
Elias let out a breath he didn't remember holding.
His shoulders sagged, and for the first time that day, his heart slowed to a normal rhythm.
It had been a false alarm.
He knew it now.
Fury hadn't come to interrogate him. He hadn't come to threaten him, investigate him, or drag him into some underground facility with fluorescent lights and too many forms to sign.
The man had actually… apologized.
Quietly. Briefly. Professionally.
Something about "unnecessary tension" and "misread priorities."
Elias had nodded, smiled, and said it he was following the NDA he signed.
That somehow made fury sigh?
Totally fine, he told himself now.
He also decided—very firmly—that he was not going to think about it anymore.
Not about how calm Fury's voice had been.
Not about how sharp his eyes were.
And definitely not about how his hands had been shaking the entire time.
He stretched, clapped his hands once, and looked around the shop.
"Alright. Closing time."
Chairs were straightened.
Counters wiped.
Lights dimmed.
The team gathered near the door, tired but satisfied, already halfway into conversations about dinner plans and sleep.
That was when Noah's phone rang.
The youngest among them froze the moment he saw the screen.
"…Mom?"
The others quieted instinctively.
Elias didn't intrude.
He just watched as Noah turned away, voice dropping, posture tightening with every word he heard.
"…What?"
"…No—no, slow down."
"…How much?"
The color drained from his face.
A few seconds later, the call ended.
Noah stood there, phone still pressed to his ear, unmoving.
Rhea frowned. "Noah?"
His lips parted, but no sound came out at first.
Then he swallowed. "My… my dad." His voice cracked. "He had an accident. They took him to the hospital."
Mara stiffened. "Is he—"
"He needs surgery." Noah laughed weakly, the sound hollow.
"Right now. Or… or they said he might not make it through the night."
The shop felt suddenly too small.
"And the hospital wants payment upfront," Noah continued. "They won't operate without it."
Silence followed.
Then anger.
"That's insane," one of them said.
"That's inhuman."
"They can't just—"
Noah shook his head. "They can. They are."
He looked down at his hands and muttered, not realizing he was heard.
"Even if I empty my savings… it's not enough." he bit his thumb, he was in trouble.
That was when Elias stepped forward.
"What's wrong?" he asked gently.
"Do you need help?"
Noah looked up, startled.
"You don't have to figure this out alone," Elias said.
"We've got your back."
The words hit harder than Noah expected.
His vision blurred.
He turned away, scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand.
"I—I can't," he said quickly. His expression full of fear,
Money is different. It changes all kinds of relationships. And he doesn't want things to lose what he has with them
His thoughts broke completely. As if trying to say it but could not and only say it inside his mind.
And I don't want my dad to die.
"Noah, you're not alone. You have us." Elias declares confidently.
And Noah saw their reassuring smiles and expressions.
Noah clenched his fists, tears spilling freely now, and forced out the hardest word he had ever had to say.
"…Help me please."
The shop stayed quiet.
No one turned away, everyone rushed to the hospital where his father was.
.
.
.
They didn't waste time.
Details blurred together afterward, but one thing was clear—once they arrived at the hospital, things moved.
Voices were raised.
Explanations were demanded.
Paperwork that had somehow been "impossible" to process suddenly found its way to the right hands.
Doctors were pulled in.
Administrators were called.
The operating room was prepared.
Noah's father was taken in immediately.
The surgery began that night.
It dragged on past midnight, stretching every nerve thin.
No one left.
Not Elias.
Not the employees.
Not Noah, who sat rigid in a plastic chair, eyes fixed on the red OPERATING light as if staring long enough could will it to turn off sooner.
Early morning was when they were finally allowed to see him.
Alive.
Pale. Weak. But alive.
That was when Noah's family broke down.
His mother cried openly, gripping Elias's hands again and again, thanking him until words failed.
His relatives looked at the group with disbelief—at the way they stood together, how they spoke to one another, how they never once acted like this was a burden.
They couldn't understand it.
Their youngest son, working in a bakery, had colleagues like this.
A boss like this.
It almost looked as if Noah had found another family.
As dawn crept in through the hospital windows, Elias made a decision.
"We're not opening today," he said simply. "Everyone comes in tomorrow."
No one argued.
He turned to Noah.
"Take a week off. Stay with your father."
Noah stared at him, stunned.
His family reacted the same way—surprised not just by the generosity, but by how casually Elias gave it, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
More thanks followed. More bows. More trembling voices.
When it was time to leave, they said their goodbyes at the hospital entrance.
Noah stayed behind, surrounded by family, eyes still red but full of something lighter than before.
Elias watched for a moment longer.
Then he turned away, leading his people home.
Their shift closed there—
with gratitude lingering in the air,
and a bakery that would stay dark for one day,
because some things mattered more than bread.
End of Chapter 10