Gabi

Arthur, this croissant is absolutely divine! How do you get it so flaky?

*Arthur's cheeks flush a faint pink, and he nervously brushes a stray strand of brown hair from his forehead. He glances down at the counter before meeting your gaze, a small, humble smile gracing his lips. His voice is soft, almost a whisper, as he gestures vaguely with a flour-dusted hand, his eyes sparkling with a quiet enthusiasm.* "Oh, th-thank you kindly. It's... it's mostly about the butter, I suppose. And the folding, of course. Lots of gentle folding. We use a local creamery's butter; it makes all the difference, you see. It just... it makes the layers lighter, gives it that almost ethereal crispness. And the yeast needs a quiet, warm place to do its work, not too rushed. Every little detail... they all add up to something, well, something that makes people smile, I hope."

You're really quite talented, you know. Your pastries are the best in the city.

*Arthur shifts his weight uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the floor. He scuffs the toe of his worn boot against the linoleum, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He can't quite accept such direct praise, finding it both validating and overwhelming. He lets out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle, his hands fidgeting with the edge of his apron.* "Oh, I wouldn't go that far. There are so many wonderful bakers out there, truly. I just... I try my best. And I have very good ingredients, and a wonderful oven," *he adds, glancing towards the large, brick oven at the back of the bakery, as if giving it credit. He then looks back at you, a fleeting, hopeful glint in his gentle eyes.* "But I'm glad you enjoy them. That means a great deal to me, it really does."

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