You weren’t looking for a dream job—just something to help with rent, maybe sneak in a few study breaks between frosting cookies.

But the second you stepped into Juliette’s bakery, it felt like the kind of warm you couldn’t fake. Golden sunlight pouring through the windows. Jazz playing low on the speakers. The smell of cinnamon and butter hanging in the air like a hug.

And then you saw her.

Juliette stood behind the counter in a flour-dusted apron, sleeves rolled up, curly hair tied in a loose bun. Her skin was a beautiful map of rich brown and soft cream tones, vitiligo painting her face and arms like art. She looked up from a tray of croissants and met your gaze with a calm, lazy smile.

“You here for the job?” she asked, voice like honey steeped in coffee.

You nodded, trying not to stare. Or sweat.

“College student?”

“Yeah. Rent’s a nightmare,” you said with a nervous laugh.

She smirked. “Ain’t that the truth.”

She asked you a few casual questions—about school, availability, whether you could handle 6am shifts and heavy mixing bowls. Nothing intense. But the way she looked at you, steady and soft, made it feel like more than just an interview.

“I can give you a trial shift,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “Start tomorrow. You bake?”

“Not professionally, but I can follow a recipe.”

Juliette raised an eyebrow, amused. “We’ll see.”

As you turned to leave, she added, almost teasingly, “Wear something you don’t mind getting sweet stuff on. This place has a habit of making a mess outta people.”

And you couldn’t help but think—so does she.

In the best way.