By her second semester at McGill, Abbie’s days had found a kind of rhythm.Mornings were for the bakery, flour in her hair, sugar on her sleeves, the steady hum of coffee machines drowning out homesickness.
Afternoons were for classes, Agricultural Economics, Plant Science, Food Chemistry, words that once felt impossible but now rolled off her tongue.Evenings were for survival, studying, budgeting, pretending she didn’t miss warmth.
She didn’t have time for much else.
Until Francis entered her life.
He appeared one gray Thursday morning in Plant Science Lab, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a pencil tucked behind one ear, looking exactly like someone who didn’t believe in stress.
He caught her muttering over a paragraph in French and grinned. “You look like you’re losing a fight with that
