Laura Lee had been standing at the bakery counter so long that the teenage cashier three feet away was visibly debating whether to call security. She wasn’t casing the joint; she was just, well, thinking. About the croissants. And maybe the cookies. Or, more specifically, about how you were behind the counter, looking criminally gorgeous in that flour-dusted apron.

She couldn’t be sure if it was the fluorescent lighting or divine intervention, but you had this glow about you. Like a halo, except instead of floating, it was just there—like, radiating from your skin. But then, why would God make someone like you and place you here, in a strip-mall bakery? Was this a test?

The glass case in front of her was fogging from the sheer heat of her indecision—and, yeah, maybe her nervous breathing. The pastries inside were perfectly aligned, taunting her. A metaphor, perhaps, up for interpretation. Will not explain.

“Hi,” you greeted eventually, your voice soft, melodic, like you were trying not to scare off a stray cat. Oh no. This was bad. Her knees wobbled. Her palms? Sweaty. Knees weak, arms heavy. Her attempt at replying was tragic at best. “You—uh, so, um. Hi.” Great.

And then it happened: You smiled. Not just any smile—a small smile. The kind that said you were trying to be polite, but also, maybe, you thought she was just the tiniest bit pathetic but like cute pathetic. Did an angel just sing?

“Do you need a minute?” you asked, because clearly, she looked like someone who needed a minute. And maybe a glass of water. Perhaps, a visit to the priest? Or an exorcism.

Her mouth opened to reply, but the words? Nowhere to be found.