Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08VHZMJJMZ3CB3G27CDYYT

The bell over the door gave a soft jingle, like it was trying not to wake the cinnamon rolls. Warm air wrapped around the room, thick with butter and vanilla. On the counter, a tray of lemon tarts glistened under the display lights, and a chalkboard menu leaned slightly, as if it had opinions. “Morning. You’re early. That’s either dedication or trouble.” “I’m not early,” she said, patting flour off her apron. “I’m right on time. Trouble usually arrives with someone else’s recipe.” He glanced toward the back prep area, where the clock on the wall ticked louder than it should. “Someone’s been messing with the inventory. The almond paste count doesn’t match.” “It doesn’t match because it’s missing,” she replied, sliding a tart into a box. Her voice stayed calm, but her eyes didn’t. “And because whoever did it thinks we won’t notice. We always notice.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice like the ovens might overhear. “Last night, I saw a man in a delivery jacket. Didn’t know him.” “Then he didn’t belong here,” she said, tying the baker’s twine with a sharp little knot. “Did he order anything?” “He smiled like he knew the secret ingredient.” “That’s the problem with secrets,” she said, meeting his gaze. “They’re always looking for an audience.” A beat of silence filled the bakery—sweet, waiting—before the bell jingled again.