Chapter Text
The Autumn Harvest Market in Square Louise‑Michel was already bustling when Felix stepped out of the house that afternoon.
The aroma of sugar, cinnamon and woodsmoke did nothing to distract him from his ultimate goal. His mother pleaded that something suitably “pumpkin” and “fall flavored” was just what she needed at the gathering that evening.
Despite it being incredibly inconvenient and annoying, he didn't want to disappoint her.
He had tried some of the bakeries nearby, but got several variations of “We are out of pumpkin pastries, monsieur. Perhaps try the market stalls?”
So that's what he begrudgingly did.
He’d hoped this would be a quick errand. It was becoming anything but.
Walking in a straight, purposeful line, Felix passed stalls of scarves, mittens, wreaths, and countless other trinkets, unimpressed. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for other than the two descriptors his mother had given him, but he figured he’d know it when he saw it.
Lips pressed thin as he weaved around streams of people, he exhaled loudly in aggravation. He was about to turn back and head towards his new home, defeated, when a string of soft fairy lights caught his eye.
He stopped mid‑stride, gaze snagging on the faint glow. A flicker of something a lot like hope, catching low in his chest.
Without thinking, he slowly started to move towards the stall, just narrowly avoiding contact with a couple that didn’t realize he existed until it was nearly too late.
Normally, that would’ve bothered him. But right now, he had a pumpkin something to find.
His discovery was a foldout table draped in cream cloth, a chalkboard sign declaring Petit Douceur with pumpkins sketched beside it. The display was almost… charming, despite the unnecessary twinkling lights.
Jars of pumpkin butter, boxes of pumpkin bread, and baskets labeled Maple Caramel Bites and Pumpkin Tart sat neatly arranged. The words Made with Real Pumpkin beneath the samples gave him pause.
He leaned closer, eyeing the golden tarts dusted with powdered sugar.
His hand reached out absently, only to brush against another—soft, warm, and startling.
Felix jerked back as if burned, a quiet curse slipping out. His eyes flicked to the presumed baker, a girl about his age in a pastel blue sweater, hair loosely tied back, absorbed in her sketchbook. Pencil darted across the page, sketching as if nothing else existed in the world. She didn’t even notice, he realized, as she finally plucked up the tart—his tart—and raised it to her lips.
“Aherm.” His throat cleared sharply.
Her head lifted immediately, vibrant blue meeting cold green.
Her gaze lingered a beat too long, freckles visible now where strands of hair framed her cheeks. Shoulders stiffened, lips pressed together, the tart held almost defensively. Then, as if remembering herself, she straightened and offered a polite smile. “I’m so sorry about that! I guess I got carried away.”
Felix’s brow furrowed.
Something about the tilt of her chin, the way her eyes had locked with his, felt familiar. The thought needled at him, but the memory refused to surface. He cleared his throat again, sharper this time.
“Do you actually use real pumpkin?” he said curtly, his tone carrying the same suspicion he reserved for supermarket labels. Something about her voice tugged at him. Not the words, but the cadence, the warmth beneath them.
She blinked, startled, then nodded quickly. “Yes. Fresh pumpkin purée. I roasted it myself.”
Felix’s eyes narrowed. “From scratch? Not canned?”
He told himself he was being thorough, but the truth was he wanted her to keep talking. Something in her voice tugged at a memory he couldn’t place.
“From scratch,” she repeated, a faint flush rising to her cheeks. Her fingers tightened around her pencil, as though bracing against his interrogation.
He gestured toward the jars stacked neatly at the edge of the table. “And that packaging. Is it food-safe? Or just decorative?” The words came clipped, but his gaze lingered on her hands longer than he meant to. He was testing her, yes—but also testing the familiarity that needled at him.
The pumpkin tart thief hesitated, then answered with quiet certainty. “Food-safe. I checked the supplier twice,” she said, voice steady but pitched a little higher than necessary.
Felix’s irritation prickled again. She was too competent, too precise, and it annoyed him. Yet none of her answers explained why her eyes felt so familiar.
“And how long have those samples been sitting out?” he pressed, as though the detail might unlock something.
Her smile didn’t falter, though her shoulders did. “Not long. I refresh them every hour.”
“Would you like to try a sample?” she added quickly, tone warm and practiced. The kind of pleasantness born from hours behind a counter, but just a shade too bright, as though covering something. Her gaze slid away, fingers brushing the edge of her sketchbook as if tempted to close it.
He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. She was hiding something, though he couldn’t imagine what.
He wanted to dismiss her as another amateur with fairy lights and chalkboard signs, but she kept dismantling his doubts with what he could only describe as nervous honesty.
Felix’s gaze flicked to the neat rows of loaves, their uniform shape far more respectable than the rustic trinkets he’d passed earlier. He exhaled through his nose, dismissively. “I’ll take a pumpkin loaf,” he said, sliding a few bills across the table with the air of reluctant concession.
The freckled stranger’s smile brightened, just a touch too much. “Of course. Thank you,” she replied, voice overly pleasant, almost rehearsed. She tucked the money into a little box, movements careful, practiced. Felix’s eyes flicked down, not at the bills but at the sketchbook beside her elbow—quick lines, fluid shapes, the curve of a pumpkin. He frowned, unimpressed but faintly unsettled.
He picked up the loaf, but his fingers lingered just long enough to snag one of the tart samples as well. He tucked it into his palm with clinical detachment, as though it were evidence to be tested later.
“I hope you enjoy it,” the sweatered vendor added brightly.
Felix muttered something under his breath, turned on his heel and strode off. Only once he was clear of the fairy lights and chalkboard sign did he glance down at the tart.
He bit into it, expecting mediocrity.
The crisp pastry gave way to spiced pumpkin filling, warm and balanced.
His jaw tightened.
It was… annoyingly good.
Felix hadn’t intended to circle back so soon. At least, that’s what he told himself.
His mother’s gathering provided the perfect excuse. She would expect more than one loaf, perhaps something varied. That was reason enough. He was being efficient. That was all.
The fairy lights glowed faintly as he approached again, the chalkboard sign unchanged, the vendor still bent over her sketchbook. She looked up this time, startled, before smoothing her expression into another bright, professional smile.
“Back again?” she asked, voice pitched pleasantly.
“My mother insists on variety,” Felix said crisply, as though the words themselves excused his presence. His gaze flicked toward the boxes stacked behind her. “A box of tarts. To go.”
She nodded quickly, setting her pencil down. The sketchbook slid forward as she rose, resting open on the table. Felix’s eyes caught on the page. An autumn gown, sketched in fluid lines, leaves cascading into fabric folds.
He frowned, unsettled. He wasn’t a designer, but he knew fashion. His mother’s company had raised him in its orbit; he’d seen collections pitched, sketches critiqued, prototypes discarded. Adrien’s modeling career kept him close to the details: drape, proportion, the way fabric could suggest movement even on paper. And this sketch… it wasn’t amateur. It was sharp, balanced, with a kind of elegance that rivaled what he’d seen in professional portfolios. Better, even, than what he’d assumed at first glance.
He lingered, loaf tucked under his arm, eyes fixed on the sketch as though staring at it might force recognition. When she returned with the box, he shifted his gaze deliberately to her face, holding it there, waiting for her to look back.
She did, briefly, before her smile brightened again, overly pleasant. “Here you are. I hope your mother enjoys them.”
Felix accepted the box with clinical detachment, but the gown sketch burned in his mind. He hated puzzles without answers, and this vendor with fairy lights, nervous honesty, and unexpectedly good design work was becoming one.