I freeze for half a second, just long enough for it to be noticeable.
“It’s going great,” I say brightly. “I love lying low. I’m basically subterranean.”
Leo nods slowly. “You’ve been reorganizing the sugar packets for fifteen minutes.”
“They were chaotic,” I snap.
“They were in a jar,” he replies.
“They were emotionally chaotic.”
That finally earns a look from Tess. She lifts her gaze and studies my face, not the flour, not the muffin casualty, just me.
“You ok?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” I answer automatically.
And the second it leaves my mouth, I wish I could take it back. Not because it’s entirely false, but because it feels too rehearsed, like a line I’ve said before when things weren’t fine.
I am fine.
I’m not falling apart.
I’m not sitting in a puddle of anything.
I’m just… tense. Like everything inside me is holding its breath and refusing to exhale.
Leo watches me for a moment, his expression shifting from teasing to something softer.
“Did he text you?” he asks.
My stomach flips at the word he.
“No,” I say.
Leo’s voice loses its edge completely. “Do you want him to?”
I open my mouth, ready to deflect, ready to joke that I want everyone to text me because I thrive on attention like a houseplant.
But Tess is watching. And Tess notices everything.
So I don’t joke.
“Maybe,” I say quietly.
Leo doesn’t look smug or surprised. He just nods, like that answer confirmed something he already knew. “Ok.”
And that’s the end of it.
Customers walk in, the bakery bell rings, and the conversation dissolves back into the rhythm of the day. Life keeps moving. But something in my chest stays tight, refusing to settle.
It lingers all day.
It’s not until Tess flips the “open” sign to “closed” and I check my phone that it really hits me.
Lying low means no texting. No meeting up. No seeing each other.
It means distance.
