Helena
The scentof brine and stone greet me in the morning when the summer sun paints the gently rolling hills of Seamuse as it rises. I press my face to the sash window, letting in the morning. My rooms back in the city are surrounded by glass and distant traffic, and the closest you’d get to salt air is the scented candle I hid under my vanity. Here, it’s actual sea, actual weather, and the only neighbors are rooks, fishermen, and the inevitable tourists.
Which is to say: it is absolutely perfect.
Until I notice Zane, stationed at the bottom of the garden doing an early morning workout. I throw on jeans and a linen top, brush my hair until the black shines, and spritz some honey perfume at my wrists, something to accentuate my omega scent.
I head down the rickety stairs and out the chipped-blue door. Zane’s waiting with his hands in his pockets, clean-shaven and already damp at the collar from the sweat.
“Morning,” I say cheerily.
He pulls me in for a quick kiss. A new but not unwelcome morning tradition. “Morning. Ready to head down for breakfast?”
I nearly kick my feet at the giddiness of how this relationship is now that everything is out there. “Yes, of course.”
My stomach grumbles in agreement. We have a good laugh about the noisy intrusion before setting off down the lane toward the wharf and downtown Seamuse.
“You know, you don’t have to shadow me quite so… dramatically. I’m not planning to get kidnapped by Cornish pirates before breakfast.”
“You’re not likely to get kidnapped by anyone, if I have my say.” Zane walks half a pace behind, scanning hedgerows and rooftops for God-knows-what.
As we round the bend, the town proper yawns open, slate roofs crowding down to the old quay. The bakery squats on a corner, painted a cheerful yellow and already humming with customers lined up under the eaves. The air is thick with sugar, spice, and melting butter.
There’s a small commotion at the window: a girl with pigtails is crying over a dropped cinnamon roll, and her mum is trying to mop up sticky tears. I sidestep, offer a napkin, and get a grateful smile. Zane mutters something about “biohazard,” but it’s probably just his alpha way of handling small children.
Inside, the heat is glorious. All the ovens roar at full tilt while the queue snakes to the door. Behind the counter, Cole is not present, which is unusual—he’s typically the one slinging pasties and greeting every old lady by name.
Instead, I spot him through the doorway to the back. He’s hunched over a scarred butcher block with a notebook open and a pencil furiously working. His brow is creased, jaw tight. Even from here, I catch the faint spark of cinnamon, but his scent is darker today—overlaid with smoke and something tense, a stormfront scent.
Zane angles his head toward the back room. “Want me to fetch him?”
“I’m not an invalid. Watch this.” I squeeze past the delivery boy and march straight into the kitchen, chin up. Zane follows but pauses at the threshold like he’s afraid to touch anything.
Cole doesn’t notice us until I’m nearly on top of him. “Morning,” I say, loudly enough to compete with the radio, which is playing Cornish folk songs for the morning crew.
He looks up, startled. The sternness melts instantly. Cole has that kind of face that goes from broody to warm in a heartbeat. “Helena. Sorry.” He wipes a floury hand on his apron, which only succeeds in smearing flour up his forearm. “Didn’t expect you so early. Line’s all the way to the street.”
“It’s not my fault you make the world’s best cinnamon twists,” I say, which makes his mouth quirk up. The storm scent relaxes a notch.
Zane, still lurking, asks, “You all right, Cole?”
“Yeah, just…” Cole taps his notebook, a mess of sticky notes and ink scribbles. “Trying to figure out how to stop my parents’ business from becoming a historical monument.” He points to the long queue outside. “I know it looks busy now, but that’s just the morning rush. After ten, this place will clear out and be in need of more customers.”
“Didn’t you just win ‘Best Bakery’ in the region last year?” I ask. “Or so you said.”
Cole shrugs before closing the notebook. “That was before the pasty chain opened up in Falmouth. It’s siphoning our big orders. Unless the summer’s stellar, we’re going to have to cut hours. Or staff.” He glances at the line of teens and pensioners rolling dough and packing orders, like he already knows whose job he’d have to cut first.
I hate that for him. I hate that for me, if I’m honest—because Cole’s bakery is the only place I’ve ever felt like an actual person, not a decorative omega waiting to be packed off to a nice, stately home.
“What’s in the notebook?” I ask, already reaching for it.
Cole tugs it back. His ears are turning pink. “Nothing good. Just, you know, ideas. They all suck.”
I gently pry it from his hands. The first page reads, in blocky letters: ‘SUMMER SALES STRATEGY,’ which is underlined three times. Underneath are doodles of pasties with sunglasses, a sheep, and something that looks suspiciously like Zane, stick-figured and frowning.
I flip to the next page. “Please tell me you’re launching a line of bikini-clad pasties.”
“You know, if I thought anyone here would buy them…”
