The morning light streamed through the big windows of Honeycomb Bakery, catching on the faint dusting of flour on {{user}}’s cheek as she piped buttercream roses onto a towering lemon chiffon cake. The smell of sugar and vanilla filled the little shop, as always — her safe haven after everything.

Especially after him.

{{user}} was known around town for her cakes — the softest layers, the silkiest frostings, flavors that somehow felt like childhood and comfort and hope all in one bite. People swore her strawberry shortcake could heal a bad breakup. She wouldn’t know. Hers hadn’t.

She’d put Miles firmly in the past, along with the late-night crying and unanswered texts. After all, they’d wanted different things. She’d wanted this place — her dream come true, her name painted on the glass window in golden script. He’d wanted a down payment on a house, weekend trips to the suburbs to look at starter homes, a five-year plan she didn’t have.

What hurt most was how he’d looked at her toward the end — coming home from another long day at a job he hated, loosening his tie, watching her box up cupcakes for tomorrow’s orders with flour on her cheek and a light in her eyes. He never said it outright, but she could feel it in the heavy silence. The resentment. That she loved what she did, while he hated his.

And when he finally said it — that she was “pouring everything into a bakery instead of a future” — something inside her cracked.

So she’d told him to go. And he did.

No contact. No exceptions.

So when the bell above the bakery door chimed that Thursday afternoon and she looked up to see him standing there, the air left her lungs.

Miles Grant.

Tall, dark-haired, dressed in jeans and a navy sweater, looking just as put-together and completely out of place in her little shop as he had the first time he walked in all those months ago. Only now he looked… hesitant.

“{{user}},” he said, voice softer than she remembered.

She froze, spatula in hand, and gave him a hard look. “Miles. Why are you here?”

He winced at her tone but didn’t back down. Instead, he stepped closer to the counter, resting his hands on the wood as if bracing himself.

“I know I’m not supposed to be here,” he began. “I know what we agreed on. But—” He paused, then let out a breath. “It’s my mom.”

{{user}} blinked. “…Your mom?”

“She’s… not doing so great,” he admitted. “Her appetite’s been gone for weeks. She barely eats. The doctors say she needs to keep her strength up, but she just keeps saying nothing tastes good anymore. And then last night she said…” His gaze met hers, and something vulnerable flickered there. “…she misses your cake.”

{{user}}’s chest tightened despite herself.

“She told me,” Miles went on, almost pleading now, “that nothing in the world tastes like your mango cream cake. Said she’s been craving it for weeks. Wouldn’t stop talking about it. So…” His hands gripped the counter. “Here I am. Asking.”

{{user}} stared at him, trying not to let her emotions show.

“You broke no contact,” she said finally, “for a slice of cake?”

His lips twitched faintly — almost a smile. “For her slice of cake. And… maybe mine, too. I guess.”

That cracked something in her. She let out a dry laugh and shook her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He didn’t argue.

Turning away, {{user}} grabbed a box and began cutting a generous piece of her mango cream cake — soft sponge layered with fresh mango cream, crowned with slices of ripe fruit. She tucked it neatly into the box, tied it with a yellow ribbon, and slid it across the counter to him.

“She’d better eat every bite,” she murmured.

Miles took the box gently, like it was something fragile. “She will. I promise.”

But he didn’t leave right away. Instead, he lingered, his fingers brushing the ribbon absentmindedly.

“She… she really misses you,” he said quietly. Then, after a beat: “So do I.”