The bakery, which has been winding down, explodes into a frenzy of controlled chaos.
It is a culinary flash mob.
My body moves on instinct. I don’t think. I do. The three chocolate rounds are already cooled. I level them, stack them, and crumb coat them in less than five minutes. Offset spatula. Turntable. Quick, efficient swipes that are pure muscle memory and stubbornness.
“It’s not going to be fondant, kid,” I call to Maya, who watches like she’s witnessing a crime and a miracle at the same time. “Fondant tastes like sugary plastic. This is real buttercream. It’ll taste better.”
Gwen fires up the massive stand mixer. It roars to life, whipping a vat of glistening, midnight black frosting that looks like a void.
“Leo!”
He jumps like he’s been shocked.
“I need decorations. The anime thing. I need stars. And a galaxy. Or something.” I can hear how unhinged I sound, and I do not care. “Get me stars. Silver. And purple.”
He stares at me, lost. “Get you how? From where?”
“Leo, think,” I snap.
I grab a piping bag, shove a star tip into the end, and scoop pale purple buttercream from the fridge. I thrust the bag at him.
“Squeeze,” I order. “Gently. From the top. Make a star. Stop squeezing. Pull up. A five-year-old can do this. I need a hundred. On this parchment. Go.”
He holds the piping bag like it is a live grenade. His big, raw, bandaged hands fumble with the plastic cone, and for one alarming second, I picture him holding a scalpel while a patient quietly accepts their fate.
He squeezes.
A giant, obscene purple blob erupts onto the parchment.
It is not a star.
It is a disaster.
Squeeze. Blob. Squeeze.
Maya lets out a surprised giggle. A real one. Bright and delighted, like she forgot she was allowed to laugh. Gwen rushes past with the black frosting and snorts.
“It’s all in the wrist, pretty boy,” she calls. “Don’t manhandle it.”
Leo’s face turns a furious red. “I’m not. I’m just…”
I am at his side now, watching the carnage. “You’re holding it like you’re trying to strangle it. Your hands are too hot. You’re melting the buttercream.” I point to his grip. “Hold it here.”
And then I do something I don’t usually do.
I put my hand over his.
It’s the first time we really touch since I grabbed his arm on day one, and the contrast hits me like a spark. His hand is huge, clumsy, and yes, ridiculously warm. Mine is small and strong, permanently dusted with flour, fingers calloused and sure. The contact is startling in a way I do not have time to examine.
“Squeeze,” I command, dragging my focus back to the task. “From the top. With this hand.” I adjust his grip, firm. “This one just guides. Gentle pressure. Now stop. Pull up. There.”
He does it.
Under my hand, he produces a star.
It is lumpy. A sad star, with one point shorter than the others. But it is unmistakably a star.
“See?” I say, my voice softening without permission, closer to his ear than it needs to be. “Not a complete disaster.”
