“I don’t know. Just... you said it like it was routine or something. Is he sick?”
“Nah,” Rafael said quickly. “Just his monthly doctor visit.”
Something in the way he said it, too brisk, too practiced, made my ears perk up. I straightened. “Doctor? What for?”
Rafael’s jaw ticked, just barely, before he wiped his hands on a towel and avoided my eyes. “He just needs his back looked at. That’s all.”
I blinked. “His back?”
“Yeah.”
“That why sometimes he stiffens up when he’s lifting trays? I noticed it the other day. He kinda winced when he reached for the top shelf.”
Rafael gave a noncommittal grunt. “It’s nothing serious. Just old injuries flaring up. You know how it is.”
But I didn’t know. Not really. And now I was curious.
“What kind of injuries?” I pressed.
He stiffened. “We should probably get those cinnamon knots in the oven.”
I frowned. “Rafael.”
“Drop it, Sean.” He didn’t sound harsh, but the finality in his tone was unmistakable. “If Beau wants to talk about it, he will. Until then, it’s not my story to tell.”
That shut me up. I didn’t want to push. Not really. But something in my gut twisted. What kind of injuries needed monthly doctor visits?
We worked in silence for a bit after that, the quiet a little heavier than before. The ovens ticked. Dorian kept humming.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about the way Beau sometimes moved, like he was holding tension in his spine, shoulders coiled just a little too tight. What had happened to him?
Around midday, I slipped into the kitchen to grab a new tray of buns to swap out the ones cooling by the front.
The air in the back was warmer, the sound of the street a distant hush through the wall. Then I heard the bell above the bakery door jingle. Followed by a voice I didn’t recognize.
“Hey. You work here?”
Rafael’s answer came a beat later. Calm, but cautious. “Yeah. Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for someone. I heard he might’ve been hanging around this place.”
The unease hit me like a slap of cold water. I froze, one hand still on the tray.
The man’s voice lowered, like he was trying to sound friendly. “Young guy. Slim. Dark hair. Pretty eyes. Quiet type. Seen anyone like that?”
My blood ran cold.
Dorian muttered something I couldn’t catch.
Rafael’s voice dropped lower, steady but sharp-edged. “Can’t say I have. This is a bakery. We get a lot of people in and out.”
The man laughed softly. “Sure. Just figured I’d ask. Never know where someone might run off to.”
I edged toward the door, not enough to be seen but just close enough to peek through the crack.
The man standing at the counter looked like trouble dressed in secondhand denim. He had a scruffy beard, restless hands, and sharp eyes scanning every corner of the room.
He didn’t look like a cop. And he didn’t have that air of someone just looking for a lost friend. He looked like someone hunting.
