He folds boxes like he has been doing it for years, not weeks. He packs every order carefully, like the contents matter beyond their price point. His hands are bigger than mine, rougher now. A month of dough, heat, and sanitizer has changed them. But he never crushes a croissant. Never smudges a Danish. Never rushes the close.
Pack.
Slide.
Next.
He does not look up unless Gwen calls something out. Head down. Brow furrowed. That same ridiculous, earnest concentration he used to have when he named dough like Pokémon, except now there is discipline under it. Restraint.
The crowd changes while we are working. I feel it before I see it, like a shift in pressure.
The whispers are dull.
The edge softens.
The hostility drains away, replaced by something quieter.
“He is actually working,” someone murmurs.
“He is really fast,” someone else says. “And he is not even talking.”
He is not.
He is not charming anyone. He is not performing. He is not trying to win anyone back. He is not even trying to win me back.
He is just doing what I let him do.
And that matters more than I want it to.
Phones come out, but they are angled differently now. Not at me. At him.
Not Leo the billionaire.
Leo the spectacle.
Leo the headline.
Leo the employee.
Leo, the guy who, eight weeks ago, asked me if he could come back into the bakery and accepted no without flinching.
Leo, the guy who waited until I said maybe.
Leo, the guy who waited again until I said OK, but only pop-ups, and only if Gwen said yes too.
I do not check my phone, but I can still feel the shift. The mood is not hostile anymore.
It is curious.
Almost supportive.
We sell out.
At 1:12 p.m., Gwen holds up the last baguette. “That is it, folks. We are done. Sold out.”
Someone cheers. A few people clap. A kid groans dramatically. I lean against the register, my legs suddenly weak, my face sore from smiling. The fake one that turned real somewhere along the way.
Leo finally stops.
