By seven a.m., the patisserie already smelled like the kind of heaven you only get from butter and sugar.
I wiped the back of my wrist across my forehead, smearing a streak of flour higher into my hairline. Of course. I caught a ghost of myself in the reflective oven door—messy bun, oversized T-shirt under my apron, cheeks flushed from the heat—and huffed out a breath.
“Gorgeous,” I muttered. “Truly the face of financial ruin.”
Behind me, trays clinked as I slid the last batch of chocolate croissants onto the rack. They glistened, flaky layers catching the light as the morning sun pushed through the patisserie’s front windows. Outside, the city moved in its usual rush—heels on pavement, a bus sighing to a stop, someone swearing faintly as a bike bell rang.
Inside was my little pocket of warmth. A worn wood counter, mismatched chairs, Clara’s framed certificates leaning slightly crooked on the wall. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine in all the ways that mattered, at least while my shift lasted.
“Lillian!” Clara’s voice floated in from the front, warm and brisk. “You about done back there? Doors open in five. Try not to terrify the customers with that murder-face you do.”
I rolled my eyes even as my mouth tipped upward. “It’s not a murder-face. It’s my neutral.”
Clara poked her head through the swinging door, curls frizzing in the humidity. “Your neutral looks like you’re calculating the price of their organs on the black market.” Her gaze swept the racks, and her expression softened. “Those look beautiful, love.”
Something in my chest loosened, its usual knot of worry easing for a heartbeat. “Thanks.”
“Now wash your hands and your face. Flour is not a personality trait.”
She disappeared again. I obeyed, scrubbing until the stickiness and half my thoughts rinsed down the drain. For a moment, I let myself stare at the cracked tile near the sink and breathed, counting in and out.
Rent. Minimum on three different cards. The looming number in bold red on the debt collector’s last notice—that particular shade that seemed designed to stick in the back of my eyes even when I closed them.
Don’t think about it.
The bell over the front door jingled just as I tied my apron again. I stepped out into the main room, smoothing the faded navy fabric down my front.
The first customers were our regulars: Mrs. Alvarez with her tote bag and perpetual chatter, a guy in neon running gear, a woman with earbuds who always bought exactly one almond cookie and left without saying a word.
“Morning,” I said, sliding into my spot behind the glass case. The pastries inside caught the light like jewelry—lemon tarts, cinnamon twists, the croissants front and center like tiny sculptures of everything I loved and everything I couldn’t afford.
My shoulders settled into the familiar rhythm as I took orders, made change, listened to Clara banter with a couple arguing over which eclair to share. For a little while, the noise filled the spaces where my anxieties liked to echo.
Then the bell chimed again, and the room shifted.
I felt it before I fully registered why. A subtle drop in conversation, the way Mrs. Alvarez’s words faltered mid-sentence. Heat crawled up the back of my neck, the odd sense of being watched prickling across my skin.
