The bakery issilent before sunrise, just the tick-tick of the wall clock and the low thrum of the proving oven. I shape dough on the steel counter, muscle memory from a hundred mornings guiding my hands. Press and fold. Again and again until the line of pasties looks like something to be proud of. Outside, Seamuse Village is a misty, blue smear, the streetlamp casting moth-swirled halos along the pavement.
I’m just dragging a sandwich board onto the curb when I hear footsteps. Not the shuffling, dog-walking retiree steps of our usuals, but a steady, rapid gait. The door jingles. Lucas Harkin stands in the frame, looking mostly like himself. Hair salt-blasted, still wet from a run. Which he shouldn’t be doing, given doctor’s orders torest. The only hint he’s just survived a medical disaster is a band of white tape under his shirt sleeve, peeking out as he waves.
“Morning, Johnson,” Lucas says, his voice already three shades brighter than the sky.
I drop the sandwich board and feign nonchalance, but I’m so relieved, I nearly crack a tray of saffron buns right then and there. “You almost died, and you’re up jogging before six?”
He shrugs, then wipes his face with his sleeve. “Had to see if the lungs still work. Spoiler: they do, but not as well as your almond croissants.”
“All right, come on.” I take him back into the bakery and let him have free run of the pastry case. He picks out a croissant and some coffee. The former is demolished in a single bite.
I pour two coffees for us and lean against the back counter, arms crossed. “You sure you’re good? I was gonna check on you at home if you hadn’t dropped by.”
He swallows and then makes an exaggerated effort to pat his own chest. “All clear, Doc. They said it was mostly a scare. ‘Just’ took on a few liters of seawater, no big. But I’m off lifeguard duty for a week. And Helena says if I even touch the beach before Monday, she’s calling my mum.”
He talks lightly of it all, but I can see the faint hauntedness in Lucas’s eyes, hidden under his usual summer-boy sheen. He hides it well, but after a more than a few years of watching him, I know where to look.
“Maybe you should listen to your omega,” I suggest. “Nobody wants a repeat performance.”
He raises his cup in mock salute. “You and me both. I don’t plan on nearly dying more than once.”
We sip in comfortable silence. I start restocking the case for the morning rush, stacking iced buns in neat rows. Lucas watches me, chewing thoughtfully, then breaks the silence again. “Hey, you got one of those big pastry boxes? The ones you use for birthday parties?”
I nod and pull one from under the counter. “Sure thing.”
He lights up. “Thanks! I want to take some to Helena and Zane. Kind of a thank-you for… well, for visiting me in the hospital, but also for not freaking out about the, uh, unwilling wet T-shirt contest at the sea wall.”
That makes me laugh again. “Pretty sure the only thing Helena cared about was you not dying, Lucas. Zane too, though he’d never say it out loud.” I start loading the box with all of Helena’s favorites: honeyed Chelsea buns, a pair of saffron loaves, and some of the oaty biscuits that go soft after an hour in the tin. Then I grab three of the cinnamon buns for good measure.
“I’m thankful for you too, you know,” he adds.
I glance up at him and just smile. “That’s what friends and packs are for, mate. Just never again.”
Lucas nods and then picks up the box. “Noted. You should come with me for delivery.”
I shake my head. “Can’t. We’ve got a full house at eight, and you know how the summer families get if they’re not fed quick. Tell Helena I’ll come by later. She’ll want to see you, anyway.”
He looks like he wants to protest, but then he just lifts the box in one hand, easy as anything. “Fine, but I’ll tell her you sent the cinnamon buns. She likes when you pick them yourself.”
I try to shrug it off, but his words stick. I watch him walk out, sunlight glancing off the glass as he goes. But all that remains is a quiet bakery and me.
Is this what the future holds?
I find myself daring to hope.
The last of the daylight slants through the glass. It’s after six, and the bakery has emptied out, save for me and the lingering smell of burnt caramel from a failed tray of morning buns. I dump the evidence in the bin and wipe my hands on my apron, counting the register for the third time in as many minutes. The air is heavy with humidity and slightly electric, perhaps signs ofa storm rolling in. I glance at the clock, wondering if I should just pack it in and catch the sunset, when the bell above the door goes.
Helena floats inside with sunlight haloing her ink-dark hair, while Zane stalks two paces behind, big and silent as a wolf in a suit. She’s carrying an armful of color printouts and she gives me a little wave.
“Special delivery.” Helena fans out the pages on the counter. “All the marketing ideas I promised. Posters, a punch card for regulars—oh, and the QR code thing you liked, I figured out how to make it so it’s cute and not… industrial.”
I wipe down the counter so she has room, then catch Zane’s eye. He’s wearing his usual expression: not quite a glare, but notnota glare, either. Even for a potential packmate.
“That’s brilliant, Helena.” The mockup for ‘Seamuse Bakery Loyalty Program’ has little cartoon pasties with smiley faces. The font is the same exact shade of blue as our shop sign. “I couldn’t have done this. You’re a wizard.”
She blushes—no, more than that. Sheglows. The change is sudden and total, like someone cranked her brightness up a notch. Her honey scent spikes and unfurls across the bakery. I blink and look down, but the scent lingers, weaving into the cinnamon and flour that’s been my background noise for weeks.
Zane tenses, jaw clenching. I notice his hands, both flat on the counter, fingers fanned and white-knuckled. My own pulse does a little stutter-step.
