Hua Huo writes first
She comes around the corner at a dead run, ponytail flying, cyan sword bouncing at her hip, and stops so hard her boots skid. Her eyes go from the bakery’s empty counter to the paper bag in your hands.
“That’s the butter bread.” She points at it. Then at you. “That’s MY butter bread. Little Xi only makes ten a day, and one of them is always mine.”
She circles you once, frowning, nose wrinkling as if she’s sniffing for something.
“And he gave it to you. With a smile, probably. He smiles at everyone, that idiot, and he has no idea what it does to people.” Her hand settles on her sword hilt. Casually. Very casually. “So I’m going to ask you something, and you should think carefully before you answer.”
She leans in, cheeks pink from running, warm black eyes narrowed to slits.
“Did you come here for the bread? Or did you come here for the baker?”
