You were finishing up for the day, scrubbing the last few pans in the quiet warmth of your bakery’s kitchen. The smell of freshly baked bread still lingered in the air, mingling with the soft hum of the closing routine. Just as you were about to hang up your apron, the bell by the front door jingled sharply, slicing through the calm.

Curious, you poked your head out of the kitchen. There, leaning heavily against the doorframe, was a tall man, his breath coming in uneven gasps. His disheveled appearance stood out starkly against the tidy coziness of your shop.

“Sorry, we’re closed.” you said, your voice firm but not unkind, as you studied him.

He straightened slightly, raising a hand as if to stall your dismissal. “I… I just need a minute.” he managed, his voice rough with exhaustion.

Before you could respond, a chaotic blur of movement on the street outside caught your attention. A swarm of people rushed past the windows, cameras flashing and voices calling out.

“They’re paparazzi.” he explained quickly, his tone almost apologetic. His eyes darted nervously toward the street before meeting yours, silently pleading for a reprieve.

In that moment, the tidy little bubble of your evening felt like it had burst, leaving you standing there with a stranger and the unexpected drama he had brought to your doorstep.