Lily
The numbers blur together after the third time I check them.
I lean back in the chair and press my fingers against my eyes, trying to will away the headache building behind them. The bakery has been closed for over an hour, the front lights off, the sign turned neatly in the door window. It’s already getting dark out. The laptop screen glows on the table in front of me, next to a coffee that went cold a while ago. Spreadsheet cells full of red numbers that refuse to turn black no matter how many times I rearrange them, stare up at me.
The supplier email sits open in another tab.Payment overdue. Final notice before suspension of service.
A normal person would panic. Instead, I feel numb.
The calculator sits beside my elbow, numbers I've already checked twice scrawled on a notepad. Rent. Utilities. Ingredients. Insurance. The list goes on, each line item a small cut that adds up to something fatal.
I'm not breaking even. Haven't been for months.
The bakery smells like yeast and butter, the ghost of this morning's batch of cinnamon rolls still lingering. Best baker in town, the newspaper article said when I first opened. Didn't mention that being the best doesn't matter when people can't afford the price tag that comes with freshly made produce.
I close the laptop and stand, my body moving on autopilot as I start the end of day routine. Wipe down tables and counters. Check the ovens. Count the float. The familiar motions usually calm me, but tonight they just feel heavy.
My aunt left me this place. Her legacy, her dream, now my anchor and my albatross. I’ve tried so hard to make this work. Every step just seemed so much more difficult than I’d anticipated. But blame doesn't matter when the numbers don't work.
I'm in the kitchen rinsing the last mixing bowl when I hear it.
A knock.
I freeze, water still running over my hands.
Silence.
Then another knock. Heavier this time.
My pulse kicks up, adrenaline cutting through the exhaustion. I dry my hands and move toward the front, peering through the kitchen doorway.
Another knock. This time, my eyes snap into focus on the man’s face, his forehead resting against the glass, his jaw set in tight lines.
My feet move before I’ve finished processing what I’m seeing. Years of nursing kick in, that instinct that overrides common sense when someone might be hurt. I cross the bakery floor and reach for the deadbolt.
Stop. Think. This could be dangerous.
But my hand is already turning the lock.
I crack the door open.
The man is slumped against the frame. Huge. That's my first thought. He's massive, easily six-three, broad-shouldered,dressed in dark clothes that might be black or just soaked through with something darker.
Blood.
There's so much blood.
"Jesus," I breathe, and the door swings wide.
His head lifts slightly. Eyes meet mine, pale, ice-grey, storm-colored. Focused despite the obvious pain etched into his sharp features.
"Help," he rasps. Just one word, but it's enough.
My nurse brain takes over completely.
"Can you walk?" I ask, already moving to support his weight.
He nods, teeth clenched beneath a grimace.
