“Thanks for fixing the pipe.” Her voice is clipped, professional suddenly. “I’ll get your clothes back to you after they’re washed.”
And then she’s turning away, her back rigid, shoulders set in a line so tense I can practically feel the strain from across the room.
“You don’t understand,” I try again, taking a step toward her. “It’s not about you.”
She whirls back, eyes flashing. “Really? Because it feels pretty specifically about me. About how you’ll fix my counter in the dead of night but won’t accept so much as a ‘thank you’ to my face. About how you’ll eat my pastries when no one’s watching but act like they’re poison when I try to give them to you directly.”
Her words hit like physical blows, each one finding its mark with deadly accuracy. I stand frozen, the plate of ensaymadas in my hands, unable to form a coherent response.
“You know what? Forget it.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Enjoy the ensaymadas. Or don’t. I don’t care.”
She storms off toward the back room, leaving me alone in the middle of her half-flooded kitchen, holding a plate of pastries and feeling like I’ve been run over by a truck.
What just happened?
I look down at the ensaymadas, their buttery tops glistening in the overhead lights. They smell incredible—rich and complex, a harmony of sweet and savory that makes my mouth water despite the tension still hanging in the air.
This isn’t how I expected this to go. I came to help, to fix something that was my responsibility in the first place. I wasn’t looking for payment or gratitude. I was doing my job, and trying to make up for failing to do it properly before.
And somehow, I’ve managed to make her angry. Again.
I hear movement in the back room—sharp, agitated sounds of Lena presumably changing back into her own clothes. I should leave before she returns. Take my tools and go, give her space to cool down.
But the ensaymadas sit heavy in my hands, a gift forcibly given, impossible to return. And beneath the confusion and frustration, I feel something else—a nagging sense that I’ve missed something important. That my refusal hurt her in a way I didn’t intend.
I set the plate down on the counter—her perfectly level counter that I fixed in secret—and gather my tools. As I turn to leave, I take one ensaymada and bite into it, the rich, buttery pastry melting on my tongue. It’s perfect, of course. Everything she makes is perfect.
I’m halfway to the door when her voice stops me.
“You’re taking one after all?”
I turn to find her standing in the doorway to the back room, now dressed in her own clothes—jeans and a t-shirt with the bakery’s unfortunate name across the chest. Her hair is still wild from air-drying, her expression guarded.
I look at the pastry in my hand, then back at her. “Yes.”
She says nothing, but some of the tension leaves her shoulders.
“It’s good,” I add, taking another bite.
“I know.” No humility, just simple fact. It is good, and she knows it.
We stand there for a long moment, the air between us thick with things unsaid. I want to explain that my refusal wasn’t about her—that I wasn’t rejecting her, but rather acknowledging my own failure as a landlord. That I don’t deserve thanks for doing what I should have done months ago.
But the words tangle in my throat, coming out as nothing more than a rough exhale.
“I should go,” I say finally. “Let the fans do their work.”
She nods once, sharp and quick. “Fine.”
As I pass her on my way out, I catch her scent—butter and sugar and something uniquely her, now mingled with the faint trace of my soap from her borrowed shower. The combination does something dangerous to my pulse.
“Lena,” I say, pausing at the door. “The pipe... it won’t happen again. I’ll check the rest of the plumbing this week. Replace anything that looks suspect.”
She studies me, her expression softening just slightly. “Okay.”
It’s not enough. It doesn’t fix whatever I broke between us today. But it’s something.
I step outside, the cool air a shock after the warm humidity of the flooded kitchen. The ensaymada is still in my hand, half-eaten, evidence of my weakness for her baking. For her.
