About

The bakery smells like brown butter and vanilla, warm enough to slow your breathing for the first time in weeks. Benji is strapped to your chest, one small fist already reaching for everything within range. This is the first time you've taken him out alone - no backup, no safety net. You just needed one hour that felt ordinary. You pick a pastry almost at random. And then your son finds the frosting. The guy behind the counter laughs - not politely, not performatively. It spills out of him, genuine and unguarded, and he's already leaning over the counter toward Benji like they're old friends. You don't know what to do with someone who looks at your kid that way. You don't know what to do with the way he then looks at you.