Eloise
I could barely keep my hands still as I waited in line at Maison Luna, the little French patisserie I always stopped at when life felt too heavy. The scent of fresh croissants and butter-drenched pastries curled around me, comforting in a way nothing else could. I ordered a lemon lavender tart and an oat milk latte, my chest tight as the barista scribbled my name on the cup.
I shouldn’t be eating sweets right now. I needed to stay clear-headed for my meeting with Mike. But everything felt foggy, and the sour brightness of lemon felt like the only thing sharp enough to cut through it.
As I stepped away from the counter to wait, I pressed my thumb against the pulse hammering beneath my collarbone. The café bustled with people: women in sleek navy work dresses clacking heels against
