Nate walked through the narrow door of the bakery, the bell above it giving a light, friendly ring. Warm air met him immediately, coffee, sugar, something buttery still baking. It smelled like comfort. He paused just inside, letting his eyes adjust from the pale London light outside.

The place was small but bright, with soft wooden tables and a chalkboard wall covered in looping white handwriting. The sort of place that looked like someone loved it, not just owned it. Nate stayed a few steps behind, scanning the shelves of pastries, the kind that flaked when you breathed too close to them.