I laughed softly and stepped into his space, easily now. The way I knew I could.
“Want me to take a look? I’m pretty decent with computers. And if you don’t take a break, I’m ninety percent sure you will end up breaking the bakery’s only PC,” I said.
He cracked a tired smile. “Fine, fine. You win. I’ll go grab a cold drink and finish locking up downstairs.”
“Deal,” I told him.
I slid into his chair after he left, cracked my knuckles, and got to work.
The issue wasn’t anything serious. Just some memory bloat, a few too many browser tabs open, and a background program hogging all the power.
I closed everything, cleared the temp files, and rebooted the whole thing. Smooth and easy. But after the screen flickered back to life, I hesitated.
Something in me, curiosity or paranoia, itched to know. And I couldn’t help it.
I opened the browser again, clicked into a few cooking forums I used to visit obsessively back when I was still in school, when I was trying to escape Chef Orin’s kitchen mentally if not physically.
A few of them were still active. Professionals. Students. Hobbyists. The kind of people who knew everything about everything in culinary school circles.
On one of them, a post stood out.
Looking for info on a former student. Reward available. Contact privately.
The name listed wasS. G.
Under it:Student left program abruptly. Personal items left behind. Family concerned.
The poster’s name? Orin C.
My stomach turned. Ice shot through my spine.
I clicked back, checked a few other places. Reddit. Discord channels. Even an old Facebook group I hadn’t visited in years.
The same post had been duplicated, subtly reworded, but always the same intent. Like bait laid out in a dozen places. First the PI sniffing around the bakery, and now this.
My chest constricted.He’s looking for me.Actively. He hadn’t given up.
A tremble worked its way down my arms. I wasn’t even supposed to be online like this, not where my name might ping back into the world. My vision blurred.
And then a hand landed on my shoulder. I nearly jumped out of the chair. But it was warm. Familiar. Solid. Beau.
“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice low but full of concern. “What’s wrong?”
I turned toward him too fast. My heart thudded against my ribs like it was trying to break free. I scrambled to close the window, shut the browser.
“Nothing!” I blurted. Too quickly.
His eyes narrowed just slightly, and his hand didn’t leave my shoulder.
I really wanted to tell him, but my voice wouldn’t come. Not with the bile still rising in my throat and the taste of old fear sitting bitter on my tongue.
He didn’t push.
Instead, Beau pulled the extra chair close and sat beside me, silent for a long moment. His presence alone calmed my pulse, steadied the noise in my head.
“Whatever it is,” he said at last, “you don’t have to carry it alone.”
I nodded slowly, biting the inside of my cheek.
