Merlin dusted flour off his hands and smiled down at the newest customer.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," he said, and his speaking capabilities dwindled as the customer smiled back. Customers smiling back wasn't atypical, but it was certainly the first time he'd seen a woman built and dressed like a supermodel resting her rack on the counter.

"Hello," she said in a lilting voice. She studied his chest, and her eyes dragged back up to his face. "Hello, Merlin."

"Good afternoon, ma'am," Merlin said.

"You've already said that," the woman laughed.

"Right," Merlin said. "Then, ah, for get anything you?"

"Yes, actually." Merlin liked how easily she laughed. "A bitch cake."

"Absolutely," Merlin said. "It'll be ready in three hours. Would you like a message on your—um, what type of cake again?" He flushed.

"Bitch."

Merlin flushed. "I'm sorry, once more? It sounded like you said—"

"Bitch." She was half-laughing and delighted now. "Arthur ordered one here. It was labelled as devil's chocolate, but tasted different than usual. There was an icing dog on it."

"Oh!" Merlin said, and he recalled a cake from two weeks ago. "Yes, of course."

"But as an eleven by fifteen sheet cake," the woman said.

Merlin reached for the notepad. "Were you the cake recipient?" he asked.

She beamed at him. "I was."

Merlin shuffled his feet. "And, uh, it was alright?"

He wondered, belatedly, if his cake mastery had become a laugh, if people would start flocking to him for revenge cakes, if he would be known for cakes that tasted like Styrofoam and looked decorated by toddlers…

"Merlin," she said, "I adored it."

"Good, then. That's good. That's great!" He held out the notepad. "Would you like a message for the cake?"

"How long can my message be?" She took the pen and Merlin tried not to stare too hard at the little bony knob on the side of her wrist.

"Nothing longer than you could tweet," he said, and he began jotting down the order on his pad. "May I put a name to this order?"

She tilted a smile towards him without looking up from her writing. "Morgana."

"Merlin. I'm Merlin."

"I guessed as much." She tapped his name tag and Merlin was pretty sure that his heart was bruising his ribs as it tried to escape his chest.

Merlin stared at her handwriting as her hand moved across the page. The letters were sharp and precise; she was hardly pressing on the paper and Merlin doubted there would be the usual indentations on the page below the top one. Morgana's hair framed her face in silky dark waves, and her lashes looked extraordinarily long when she was looking down.

When she finished, he yanked his eyes to the display so he wouldn't be caught staring and rang up her receipt.

"That'll fit, you reckon?" Morgana asked.

Merlin didn't properly look at the message before he assured her that it would. She bid him a good day and sashayed over to checkout with her receipt. Merlin clutched the notepad and watched her leave before reading the message properly.

Today you are you! That is truer than true! There is no one alive who is you-er than you! Happy Birthday, Dr.

Beneath the message was a line, a phone number, and the words "call me when it's ready."

The bakery department's phone could only receive calls. Two and a half hours later, Merlin blushed violently as he ducked into the kitchen with his mobile and dialed with shaking fingers.