She sank to her knees, fingers trembling as she lifted the lid. Inside were dozens of index cards, some yellowed with age, some stained with vanilla or butter or chocolate. Aunt Clara’s looping handwriting filled every one.
Lemon cream scones.Chocolate swirl muffins.Caramel apple turnovers.Sweet Treats signature cinnamon rolls.
Avery pressed a hand to her mouth, tears burning behind her eyes.
She could almost hear Aunt Clara humming. Almost smell warm sugar and cinnamon. Almost feel Noah sitting across from her, teasing her about her terrible math skills.
Her throat tightened painfully.
Avery pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to steady her breathing, but the ache in her chest only tightened. The recipe cards blurred through her tears, Aunt Clara’s handwriting swimming in and out of focus.
And then, without warning, another memory rose, soft at the edges, warm and painful all at once.
Sweet Treats had always been her refuge, the place she ran when home felt too loud or too tense. And staring at Aunt Clara’s handwriting now pulled her straight back to one of those nights.
She was twelve again.
The bakery lights were dim, the CLOSED sign flipped, the scent of cinnamon still lingering in the air. Avery had locked herself in the tiny bathroom, sitting on the floor with her knees pulled to her chest, trying to muffle her sobs. Her parents had fought again — loud, ugly, the kind of fight that made her feel like she was made of glass and every word was another crack.
She’d run here. To Sweet Treats. To the place that always felt quieter than home when her parents’ voices got too sharp.
A soft knock sounded on the bathroom door.
“Aves?” Noah’s voice. Younger. Softer. Still carrying that quiet steadiness he never seemed to lose. “You okay?”
She’d tried to swallow the sound of her crying, but it came out anyway, a broken little hiccup she couldn’t hide.
Noah didn’t push the door. Didn’t try to open it. He just slid down the wall on the other side, sitting on the floor so their backs were pressed against the same door.
“Okay,” he murmured. “I’m here.”
Avery buried her face in her hands. “I don’t… I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“I’m not seeing anything,” he said gently. “Just hearing you breathe.”
She let out a shaky laugh, even though it hurt. “That’s worse.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s not.”
Silence settled between them, not heavy, not awkward. Just… steady. Safe. Noah’s presence seeped through the door like warmth, like a blanket she didn’t have to ask for.
After a long moment, he spoke again. “Your parents fighting doesn’t mean you did anything wrong.”
Avery’s throat tightened. “I know.”
“You don’t sound like you know.”
She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. “I just… I hate when they yell.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I hate it too.”
Another beat of silence.
Then, softly: “Aves? Can you open the door?”
She hesitated. Her eyes were red. Her face blotchy. She felt small and stupid and fragile.
But Noah didn’t rush her. He didn’t coax. He just waited.
