She holds my gaze for exactly one second too long.
Then she looks back down at the scale.
“You’re early,” she says.
Not warm. Not cold. Controlled.
“One minute,” I reply.
She nods once. “Clock in.”
And just like that, the wall is back.
But I can feel the crack running through it.
My hair is damp, like I showered too fast, or maybe like I ran here, which, embarrassingly, I did. Not because I’m late. Because my brain is a broken record and pacing in a penthouse at 4:10 a.m. doesn’t fix anything.
In my hand is a coffee cup from the 24-hour bodega down the street.
Not mine.
Hers.
Medium. Black. One and a half sugars.
Because she said, once, three weeks ago, when Gwen offered her some artisanal single-origin pour-over, and Tess looked like she wanted to commit a felony, “Bodega coffee is acceptable jet fuel.”
So, I remember.
I hold it out like it’s a peace offering and also like it’s a live grenade.
“Morning,” I say, voice rough. “I, uh… I remembered. From the other day. You said the bodega stuff was… ‘acceptable jet fuel.’”
For a second, her face does something. Something I can’t label fast enough. Surprise, maybe. Softness. Maybe alarm.
Then she takes the cup.
Our fingers brush.
It’s a tiny thing. Barely skin on skin. But it’s electric enough that I almost drop my own brain on the floor.
“You… you didn’t have to do that, Ashford,” she says, trying to sound unimpressed, but her voice is a little off, like she’s working harder than usual to keep the walls standing.
“I know,” I say. And it’s true, I know. “I wanted to.”
We stand there for a moment.
The silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid. The bakery feels too small, too warm, too intimate. Like we’re in a bubble made of flour dust and last night.
I clear my throat, rubbing a hand through my damp hair. “So, uh… about last night…”
Her shoulders tense a fraction.
And then, because Tess Bennett is physically incapable of letting awkwardness fester, she takes a sip of the coffee.
It’s perfect. Of course it is. The bodega man is a wizard.
And she cuts me off.
