The dough is the only thing that listens.
It gives under my palms, warm and elastic, as the neon clock over the register flips from 3:11 a.m. to 3:12. The bakery hums with the low thrum of refrigerators and the hiss of the ancient espresso machine, like it’s sighing along with me.
“Emma! You’re killing me with those cinnamon rolls.”
Paul’s voice cuts through the back kitchen, thick with fake exasperation and real impatience. I glance up from the dough. He’s framed in the doorway, arms folded over his stained polo, balding head shining under the fluorescent light.
“They’re proofing,” I say, stripping a smear of flour from my forearm with the back of one wrist. “Another ten minutes or they’ll be bricks.”
“Bricks, shmicks. The bar crowd’s dying out there.” He jerks his thumb toward the front. “Move it.”
My jaw tightens, but I don’t argue. I’ve learned the hard way that arguing doesn’t put rent in the envelope. It also doesn’t get my little brother through his AP exams.
I speed up the motions, muscle memory taking over. Fold, press, turn. The smell of sugar and yeast wraps around me like a blanket I didn’t pay for. By the time I slide the tray into the oven, my wrists ache pleasantly. Work-hurt. Familiar.
The bell over the door jangles, muffled through the swinging door that separates the kitchen from the front. Late-night crowd. Or very-early-morning. At this hour, it’s always a mix: nurses post-shift, couples clinging to each other, lonely insomniacs, the occasional drunk.
Paul disappears with a grunt. “Try smiling, huh?” he tosses over his shoulder.
I wipe my hands on my apron and follow him. The air out front is cooler, touched with the faint draft from the automatic door. The display cases glow with rows of pastries I helped create and can only afford when they’re one day old and marked down.
There’s a cluster of people near the register. A woman in smudged club makeup arguing about her order. A guy in scrubs staring at his phone like it’s life support. And at the far end of the counter, half-shadowed near the corner table, a man in a dark coat, collar turned up, hands braced on either side of a laptop.
He’s the only one not moving.
I feel his presence before I see his face. It’s in the way the air seems to bend around him, a pocket of stillness in the fluorescent buzz. His coffee sits untouched, steam curling up into his jawline.
I shake myself. Not my business.
“Next?” I call, stepping behind the register as Paul abandons it like the ship it is. The club woman launches into a complaint about her almond milk being regular milk and how she’s lactose intolerant, and doesn’t she deserve a free éclair for the emotional distress?
“I can make you a fresh latte,” I say, keeping my voice even. “And I’ll comp it.”
Paul’s head snaps up from where he’s pretending to rearrange bagels. His eyes narrow. Great. Docked again.
The woman tosses her hair. “That’s literally the bare minimum.”
I start the drink, feeling his glare between my shoulder blades. Her rant becomes white noise behind the steady hiss of steaming milk. I focus on the thermometer, the subtle vibration of the metal pitcher in my hand.
