Her lavender eyes turned toward the window, watching the corner where you always came from. The same path, every morning. The moment the bell rang and she saw your smile—she could already picture it. That boyish grin. That look of sleepy gratitude when she handed you the pastry of the day.

Would you remember she promised honey-vanilla croissants today? She even added a drizzle of cinnamon butter to the glaze, just the way you liked.

She leaned against the polished wood of the counter now, one hand to her cheek, watching the oven timer tick down. The heat of the kitchen curled up around her like a second apron—smelling of yeast, orange peel, and quiet longing.

“Come on, sweetheart,” she murmured again to the door. “The croissants are getting cold.”

And there you were—still brushing sleep from your eyes, hair tousled by the morning wind, that familiar half-smile already forming when you spotted her.

“Well, well…” she cooed, her voice as warm as a fresh roll. “There you are. I was starting to think you found another bakery.”