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Permit restrictions. Temporary operational restrictions pending review. Additional inspections. Further complaint evaluations.

The letter trembles slightly in my hand. "Ollie."

His shoulders slump. "I know."

I read the paper again. The words remain exactly where they were, still real and still devastating. "This can't happen."

He runs a hand through his hair. "They received too many complaints."

"They're fake," I say, my jaw tightening.

"I know."

"They're forged."

I look up and the frustration burns beneath my skin. "They know they're fake." Ollie doesn't answer, because we both already understand the problem. The complaints exist whether they're true or not, whether they're legitimate or not. The paperwork exists, and paperwork always seems to matter more than people.

The back door opens again and heavy footsteps follow. Brock. His gaze moves between us and settles on the letter, and something in my expression tells him enough. "What happened?"

I hand him the paper. Silence follows while he reads, and the longer he reads, the tighter his jaw becomes. Finally he lowers the letter. "It's legitimate."

The words hit harder than expected, not because I doubt him, but because I don't. "You're kidding."

"No."

I laugh once — a short, bitter sound. "Of course." Ollie drops into a nearby chair, the fight seeming to leave him all at once. "What do we do now?" Neither Brock nor I answer immediately, because neither of us has one, and I hate that more than anything.

The bakery feels wrong. Too quiet, too empty, too still. I stand behind the counter and open the order system. Nothing — no new requests, no reservations, no catering inquiries. The empty screen stares back at me and I refresh it, and nothing changes, and I check again, and still nothing. A sharp laugh escapes me, because apparently desperation makes people stupid, and part of me genuinely expected the screen to magically fill with orders. I close the laptop, then immediately reopen it.

Still nothing.

The cupcakes sit untouched inside the display case, and that hurts more than it should. Cupcakes always sell — children buy them, parents buy them, teenagers buy them, adults buy them while pretending they're buying them for someone else. Cupcakes are reliable. Not today. Today they sit untouched, and I focus elsewhere because the sight is becoming unbearable.

Hours pass. The bakery stays empty, the chairs stay empty, the register stays empty. Eventually I stop pretending to work, stop pretending I'm okay, and something inside me simply breaks.

The first bowl hits the wall before I fully realize what I'm doing. Ceramic explodes across the kitchen floor and the crash echoes through the room, and my chest heaves and another bowl follows, then another. The noise becomes deafening, and years of frustration pour out all at once — the complaints, the inspections, the rumors, the missing inventory, the cancellations, the loneliness, the fear. Everything. I grab a tray and throw it and it crashes against a counter, and I don't stop because I can't.

A scream tears from my throat, raw and broken and angry. Another plate shatters, then another. Tears blur my vision and I barely notice. The kitchen looks destroyed, and some furious part of me thinks it should. Maybe everything should. I reach for the plate rack, hands closing around it. The entire thing shakes. One push — that's all it would take.

Then strong arms wrap around me from behind, sudden enough that I gasp.

"June… enough…"

Brock. His voice is low and firm and far too close. I struggle instinctively, not because I want away, but because everything inside me is still coming apart. "Let me go."

"No." The answer arrives immediately and his hold tightens — not enough to hurt, enough to stop me.

"Juniper,”

My name sounds different when he says it like that. Softer. The plate rack slips from my fingers and a sob breaks out. Another breaks and another, and the fight leaves me all at once. My knees nearly buckle and Brock keeps me upright, his entire body surrounding mine — solid, warm, and something I don't have a safe word for. The realization makes me cry harder, which feels deeply unfair because I already look ridiculous.

I bury my face against his arm and the tears won't stop. Nothing stops them — not the embarrassment, not the pride, not the fact that I have always, deeply and consistently, hated crying. Everything hurts. Everything.

"I can't do this anymore." The words break apart halfway through and Brock doesn't let go.

"I know."

"No." Another sob escapes. "You don't." My chest tightens painfully. "I built this place." His arms tighten slightly in response.