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My chest tightens.

Late afternoon light turns the bakery windows gold. Snow keeps falling, softening the sidewalks and frosting the awning outside Sweet Seasons. The last rush fades into a cozy murmur of lingering customers.

I wipe down a table near the window. Nobody asked me to. I just do it.

Sadie notices from behind the counter.

“You know you don’t have to keep helping,” she says.

I fold the towel. “I know.”

“You can sit down.”

“I know.”

“You’re very bad at relaxing.”

I almost laugh. She has no idea how true that is.

Relaxing has always felt like standing still on thin ice. Dangerous. Temporary. Like the moment I let my guard down, somebody takes a picture, twists a story, or reminds me that everything good comes with a catch.

But here…

Here there’s coffee going cold near the register, Jillie coloring hockey pucks on receipt paper, Sadie counting change with flour on her sleeve, and Mrs. Bellamy telling a tourist that yes, Colby Reid is handsome, but he is also “surprisingly useful.”

Here, I can breathe. The realization unsettles me. Because Frostholm arena used to be the only place I felt alive.

Now the thought of it makes my shoulders tighten.

Meanwhile this bakery, with its broken mixer and too-small counter space and six-year-old assistant manager, feels like the calmest place I’ve been in months. I look at Sadie. She’s watching Jillie tape a drawing to the wall near the cookie display. Her face is soft, unguarded for once.

That’s when I understand the real danger. It isn’t the internet. It isn’t the fake dating story. It isn’t even the way Briar Cove has already started treating me like I belong here.

The danger is that I want to.

The bell above the door jingles as the final customer leaves.

Sadie flips the sign to CLOSED.

***

Jillie hops off her stool and runs toward me with a paper clutched in both hands.

“I made you something.”

I crouch automatically.

She hands me the drawing. It shows three stick figures standing in front of what I assume is the bakery. One has brown hair and an apron. One is small with a pink hat. One is tall and wearing skates.

Above us, in crooked letters, she has written:

BAKERY TEAM

My throat tightens unexpectedly. “Wow,” I manage. “I made the team?”

“You’re assistant sprinkle manager.”

“Right. Big honor.”