The bell jingles. The door shuts.
The bakery drops into sudden, profound silence.
It is a disaster zone.
Gwen, who has watched the entire spectacle with open delight, finally starts cleaning, like she has been waiting for the curtain call.
“Well,” she says, “that’s a new one. Art Department. Nice promotion. You’re a regular multi-hyphenate. Ghost scrubber, dough shaper, star maker.”
Leo is still buzzing with leftover adrenaline. He is smeared with purple frosting and dusted in silver. He looks like a unicorn met an unfortunate end on his torso.
And he is happy.
Genuinely. Simply. Stupidly happy.
“I made a star,” he says, grinning at me as he holds up his purple-stained hands like proof.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed, glaring at the mess like it has personally offended me.
Then I look at him. Frosting covered. Radiant. Ridiculous.
And I lose.
A laugh slips out of me.
It is short and rough, like a sound I have not used in a long time, but it is real. I feel it soften something behind my eyes, pushing the exhaustion back just a little.
“Yeah, Leo,” I say, the corner of my mouth lifting into an honest smile. “You made a star.”
The moment lingers. Warm. Bright.
Then I kill it, because I am me.
“Now clean up,” I say. “Everything. The floor, the bowls, the sparkle dust.”
But the air has changed. The tension is gone.
He is not just a ghost in my kitchen anymore. He is a deeply, profoundly incompetent anime nerd intern who pipes stars.
He starts scrubbing purple-stained bowls. His phone, forgotten in the pocket of his new practical jacket, begins to buzz on the counter. Again. And again. And again. It vibrates itself toward the edge in a frantic little dance.
“What is wrong with your phone?” I ask because the noise is unbearable.
I grab it and hold it up, intending to hand it over to him.
The screen is a strobing wall of notifications. Twitter. Instagram. TikTok. Dozens of texts are stacked on top of each other.
One message sits at the top.
JULIAN: DUDE. YOU’RE TRENDING. #BakeryBoo. CALL ME. The docu-crew is a GO.
My face goes cold.
The college girl.
Whatever warmth existed two seconds ago snaps into something sharp and brittle. I drop the phone back onto the counter like it’s contaminated.
Because, of course, the universe cannot let one good moment stay small.
