The bread tasted good, honestly.
And this wasn’t a compliment—it was a fact.
Even if Leo were the kind of person who said things simply out of politeness—and he definitely wasn’t—his empty stomach after hours without food would have made anything seem wonderful.
But the bread was genuinely good regardless of the circumstances.
It was ridiculously good, actually.
He ate slowly and looked around.
The bakery was warm, and it seemed as though the walls themselves held onto the heat.
Old wooden tables, but clean.
Family photographs sat on a shelf— a woman and a man who looked kind, smiling warmly and genuinely.
From the kitchen came the smell of something currently being baked, mixing with the scent of the bread he was eating.
Okay.
The place really was warm.
Marinette sat in the chair opposite him, took out a piece of fabric and a needle from her bag, and began sewing, her fingers moving with obvious speed and precision.
Then she looked at him.
Then at the fabric.
Then at him again.
Her expression became complicated, and her eyes carried a few complicated emotions.
“Sorry if the bread—” she began.
“It’s fine.
It’s really good,” Leo interrupted.
“Oh.” She paused.
“Good!!
I mean—my mom baked it, I didn’t do anything.
I mean, I help sometimes, but this particular bread—” Suddenly, she covered her mouth with her hand.
“Sorry.
I talk too much sometimes.”
Leo looked at her.
“It’s okay,” he said.
“The bread is good regardless of who made it.”
She looked at him with an expression that suggested she hadn’t expected that particular answer.
Then she quickly returned to her sewing, as if escaping from something.
The silence continued for two minutes.
Leo continued eating.
Marinette continued sewing.
Soft sounds and pleasant smells came from the kitchen.
The silence was comfortable.
Leo felt curious when he saw Marinette using the needle with such skill.
“How does the needle—” Leo began. Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
“Sorry?” She raised her head.
“The needle in your hand.
How do you not make mistakes?”
She looked at the needle in her hand, then at him with a strange expression.
“I made plenty of mistakes at first,” she said.
“But after years, I got used to it.”
“Years?”
“I started when I was seven,” she said in a completely casual tone.
Then, after a second, as if remembering something, she added, “I stuck the needle into my finger countless times during my first year.”
“Painful.”
“Very.” She agreed with a small smile.
“But I didn’t stop.”
Leo looked at her for a second.
A girl carrying a bag heavier than herself, walking quickly through the streets, helping strangers, sewing with unwavering fingers, and smiling at mistakes with a needle in her finger when she was seven years old.
Interesting personality.
He said it to himself.
“Marinette.”
“Yes?” She raised her head.
“Why was the bag so heavy?”
“Fabric,” she said.
“I bought it at the market.” Then she added defensively, “I know it’s heavy, but I can’t buy good fabric in small quantities, and I needed all these colors because the design I’m working on—” She stopped.
“Wait.
You didn’t ask about all that.”
“But it’s interesting,” Leo said.
She looked at him with an expression of someone trying to decide whether he was teasing her or not.
“You’re really weird,” she finally said.
“I hear that a lot,” Leo replied calmly.
A woman’s voice called from inside in French.
Marinette immediately stood up and replied in the same language, setting her sewing aside.
Then she turned to Leo.
“My mother is asking if you want more.”
Leo looked at the empty plate in front of him.
“No, thank you.
It was more than enough.”
She went inside.
Leo remained alone and took out the watch, looking at it.
Inactive.
As usual now.
“One day,” he whispered to it, “and I’m already in the kitchen of a family I don’t even know.”
He paused.
“Okay…
things aren’t so bad after all.”
“At least the bread was the best bread I’ve ever eaten.”
Marinette returned and sat down.
She picked up her sewing.
Then suddenly stopped and looked at him like someone who had just remembered something important.
“Leo.”
“Yes?”
“Where are you going to sleep tonight?”
Leo fell silent.
He looked at the table.
He looked at the watch on his wrist.
He looked at Marinette.
“I haven’t thought about that yet.”
Her eyes widened slightly.
“You haven’t thought about it?!”
“I was solving the problems in order,” he said calmly.
“This one hasn’t come up yet.”
He thought to himself sarcastically:
Well, this is just great.
At this point, I’m going to sleep on the streets like some miserable rat.
Wonderful.
It can’t possibly get worse than this.
She stared at him for a long second, wearing an expression that was a mixture of shock and something he couldn’t quite identify.
Then she sighed deeply.
Then she stood up.
“I’ll ask my mother,” she said, and left before he could say anything.
Leo looked at the place where she had been standing.
Then he looked at the ceiling.
Then at the watch.
“I solve problems in order,” he repeated to himself in a mildly defensive tone.
“That’s perfectly logical.”
The watch neither agreed nor disagreed with him.
But if it had an opinion, it would probably curse this idiot.
End of Chapter Seven