The rest of the day passed in a gentle rhythm — sugar, laughter, and the soft thrum of café chatter bleeding in from the front room. The scent of warm vanilla and fresh espresso clung to my hair, my skin, even my sleeves. Mateo sang terribly to the radio while one of our colleagues—peace— muttered about ruined classics, and I caught myself smiling so much my cheeks ached.
By afternoon, the bakery had settled into its usual lull. I stood by the front window, piping clouds of cream onto a row of lemon cupcakes, sunlight spilling across the counter in golden ribbons. Outside, children ran past holding ice cream cones, and an old couple shared a milkshake like a secret.
It was… nice. Simple. The kind of day I hadn't known I missed until I had it again.
Pedro who I hadn't noticed had been watching me the whole time suddenly said behind me. "See? Not every day needs to be perfect. Just sweet enough."
I chuckled. "That sounds like something you'd embroider on a pillow."
