By the time I got back to the bakery, the weight of the entire day had settled in my shoulders like wet sand. I didn’t remember walking the last two blocks from the train station. Didn’t remember crossing at the lights. My body moved on autopilot, but my brain hadn’t caught up.
Damian Sterling’s words still clung to the walls of my skull. “Move in with me.” Like he was offering to board a stray.
I didn’t know what was worse. The proposition itself, or the fact that, for a split second I’d considered it.
The bell above the bakery door jingled as I stepped inside, the sound warm and familiar.
It smelled like cinnamon and melted chocolate. Like sugar-crusted nostalgia and early mornings. Like mine.
This space...this crooked little building with its paint-chipped windows and scuffed wood
