The bell jangles hollowly above her head as Zelda yanks the door open. One bare, quivering hand on the metal handle, the other braced against the doorframe to counter the late-winter wind. A bone-chilling gust, speckled with snow and dashed with the urban bouquet of cigarette smoke and exhaust, joins the squeaks of her damp sneakers against the vinyl tile floor and drowns her in a sensory cacophony of overstimulation as she pushes the door closed behind her with a heavy exhale.
It's 4:53 in the morning. The corner donut shop won't even be open for another hour. But he keeps the door unlocked for her.
The desperate knot of loneliness and fear winding through her chest and threading her organs loosens when she leans back against the door and takes a deep breath through her nose. The fragrance of warm dough; the must of yeast. Chocolate, sugar, cinnamon. At least five different fruits boiling down into thick jam fillings. The scent would be delectable and heavenly on its own for any customer, but for her, it carries a different, deeper comfort. Classical conditioning.
Link pokes his head out of the doorway to the kitchen. He clutches a stainless steel baking sheet clamoring with eclairs in his oven-mitt-clad hands. "I heard the bell," he says. It's unnecessary; they both know he did. But she appreciates it regardless, because what he really means, she knows, is I hear you. "Take a seat, Zel, I'll be out once I've set these on the rack."
In addition to a handful of small tables, Link's little donut shop has a bar: five stools lined up along a laminate counter. It joins up to the left side of the massive display case, which glimmers half-full with maple twists, glazed donuts, a small mountain of cinnamon-sugar donut holes, and a dozen other varieties of the best way to eat fried dough. The bar thing certainly isn't common for a donut shop, but Link makes it work. Sometimes she imagines that he used to be a bartender before he opened this place, and missed the longer talks with customers so much that he added in a place where they could linger.
She plops herself down on the rightmost stool, the one closest to the kitchen door. Her snow-damp hoodie nearly strangles her upon its strained removal, but she breathes a little easier with the fabric covering the seat beside her, rather than her own clammy skin.
It takes five minutes, but Link eventually pops out of the kitchen as promised. This time, the wooden tray he holds is populated by sausage kolaches. He uses a flour-dusted hip to push the sliding glass out of the way, and slots in the tray next to the fruit-filled kolache variants.
"It's good to see you, Zel." He throws her a smile through the display pane as he kneels down to rearrange some chocolate cake donuts that have fallen just slightly out of alignment.
Seven visits ago, he would have led with a sympathetic Rough night?, to which she would glumly nod. Twelve visits ago, it was a Hey, sorry, we're not open ye—oh, honey, take a seat at the counter. No, go ahead, it's okay. It's okay. I'm just getting set up. I'll be right back out. Stay as long as you want. Now, he just knows: the night is rough, and she is here, and in half an hour or so, she'll be okay.
His hands are never empty, and he hardly steps out of the kitchen for longer than two minutes at a time. Their conversation comes in stops and starts and stutters. But every time he's behind the counter, they talk.
He follows up on how her grad school applications are coming (poorly, given the gaps in her resume from four years of unrelated experience). She asks him what seasonal flavors he's planning for when spring finally comes (kiwi, with peach coming later in the season). She learns that he has indeed bartended, but left the field for "sweeter digs—get it? Sweeter?" when he decided to go sober.
On his fifth pass, he hands her an unglazed apple fritter, still piping hot from the oven: her favorite. They both laugh as she juggles it between her fingertips and litters the bar with crumbs despite her best efforts.
By 5:47am, the only thing still weighing her down is the increasing heaviness of her eyelids. Her traitorous, poison-spewing brain has moved on to happier pursuits. The deep-seated fear that she will live a very long life and she will spend it alone and unloved, and that the few people that have ever cared for her will forget her and find better relationships than she could ever offer them, has settled. She knows it will return; knows that by now, the existential dread is a part of her. Still, as long as she can find refuge and give herself grace, she thinks she'll be okay.
As Zelda pulls her hoodie back on, Link tells her to take care and that he looks forward to seeing her next time, and she knows from the look in his eyes—warmer than his ovens and deep-fryers combined—that he truly means it.
She exits the shop at 6 on the dot as the first impatient customer of the day enters, and the bell chimes her a hopeful goodbye.
Author's Note
Thank you for reading!
This fic was borne from a Twitter thread, originally posted by the user pochaccobebi, which said "weird but long time ago when i felt scared alone during 2-4 am i always think about bakers in their bakery who are already up during that time doing their thing", with a reply from a former bakery employee confirming that "if you are sad or scared at 3am just remember that we're up preparing donuts, and the donuts are warm for you". I found this to be such a compelling idea–the donut shop as a place of personal comfort–I turned it into an entire oneshot. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.
Much thanks to my beta readers, linktheacehero and pastels-and-pining (over on Tumblr)! They are lovely friends and wonderful creators, and I recommend checking out their own LoZ fanfic and fanart!