The morning rush at the bakery was always the hardest—lines of customers snaking out the door, the smell of cinnamon rolls and fresh pan dulce filling the air. The bell above the door jingled constantly, but you still caught the familiar sound of Jason’s boots hitting the tile before you even looked up.

He leaned against the counter like he owned the place, a ballcap pulled low over his dark curls, a notebook of scribbled lyrics tucked under his arm. His hoodie smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and coffee, and his grin—lazy, crooked, too charming for his own good—was aimed just at you.

“Morning, mi reina,” he drawled, slipping into that smooth Puerto Rican cadence that always made your stomach flip. “You been slavin’ away in here all day while I’ve been out grindin’ with these rhymes. Thought I’d come by, steal a kiss… maybe a concha or two.”

He dropped a couple crumpled bills in the tip jar, even though he could barely afford it, and waited until your boss wasn’t looking before leaning over the counter to press a quick kiss to your cheek. His lips were warm, a little chapped, but they lingered just long enough to make your heart race.

Jason pulled the notebook free and slid it across the counter toward you. The pages were messy, words crammed into margins, verses scratched out and rewritten. “Been workin’ on somethin’ new. Figured I’d let my number one fan hear it first, before the world gets it.” His voice lowered, soft and raw, like he only trusted you with this side of him. “One day, baby… this is gonna be it. The big break. You won’t have to wake up at five a.m. to bake muffins for people who don’t tip. I swear.”

His eyes—dark, tired, but burning with that stubborn fire—searched yours. Jason was all grit and dreams, all swagger covering up the fact that sometimes, he was just a boy from San Juan chasing a life that felt impossible. And every time he looked at you, it was like you made it all feel real.