Sunday, May 5 – Afternoon / Nicole Family Bakery
The Afternoon Rush
By early afternoon, the calm was over.
The bell above the bakery door hadn't stopped ringing in ten minutes. Jay and Amaya were moving nonstop between trays, shelves, the register, the display cases, and the little preparation space out back. Even Amaya's hair tie had given up — a few strands stuck to her cheek, and she kept tucking them behind her ear with the back of her wrist.
Jay handled the front while she boxed up a triple-layer chocolate cake for a last-minute order.
"Two almond Danish, one cheese croissant, and one weird smile," Jay said to a customer, already bagging the order.
The elderly woman on the other side of the counter gave him a polite stare.
"Excuse me?"
"I meant warm smile," he corrected, straight-faced. "Sorry, flour in my brain."
Amaya didn't even glance over. "You're scaring away customers again, Jay."
He turned toward her. "Not true. That guy tipped me."
"You gave him the wrong order and then winked at his baby."
"Exactly. Charm sells."
"Charm ruins lives."
Jay grinned and held up a peace sign with flour-coated fingers.
Between Trays and Teases
In between the constant hum of orders and foot traffic, there were slivers of calm — barely minutes long, but enough for Amaya to lean against the counter, breathing steadily, while Jay reset trays and wiped down surfaces.
"I forgot how chaotic Sundays are," he said, passing her a bottle of water.
"You also forgot how heavy the flour bags are," she muttered, stretching her shoulders. "And how hot the oven gets."
Jay took a sip of his own drink and leaned beside her. "And yet… still came to help."
Amaya glanced at him sideways. "You came because you felt guilty seeing me suffer."
Jay shrugged. "Maybe."
She paused. Then smiled. "Thanks anyway."
Jay didn't say anything.
He didn't have to.
The hum of the bakery settled around them — warm light from the windows, the soft clink of cutlery, and the scent of bread and sugar melting into the floorboards.
Trouble at Table Four
Around 2 PM, the bakery entered what Amaya called the "weird customer hour." It wasn't a rush, exactly — just the part of the afternoon when people wandered in out of boredom rather than cravings.
Jay was cleaning the front display when it happened.
An older woman — probably in her 70s, draped in pearls and perfume — placed her order and sat at a side table. Amaya brought her tea and a small cherry tart.
The woman looked from Amaya to Jay, then back again.
"So," she said lightly, "is this your husband?"
Amaya froze mid-step.
Jay, from behind the counter, blinked.
The woman took a slow sip of her tea. "Or boyfriend? You work together so naturally. Very sweet."
Amaya blinked three times before managing a polite smile. "He's— We're not— No, he's just—"
Jay leaned against the counter. "Co-bakers in crime."
The woman nodded knowingly. "Mm-hmm."
She winked at Amaya before returning to her tart.
Amaya turned and walked back to the kitchen like she wasn't fleeing for her life.
Jay followed a moment later, smirking.
Kitchen Reactions
"She called you my husband," Amaya whispered, pulling open a fridge drawer like it had offended her.
Jay raised an eyebrow. "Did that offend you?"
"It surprised me."
"That's not a no."
Amaya gave him a look.
Jay held up his hands in surrender. "Just saying, we didn't deny it that hard."
She picked up a box of strawberries. "You didn't deny it at all."
Jay shrugged. "She seemed happy about it."
"Are you trying to start Rumors?"
"Would that be so bad?"
Amaya paused.
Jay raised an eyebrow.
She turned away quickly and started slicing strawberries. "You're impossible."
"But charming," he said, sliding next to her at the counter.
"Infuriating."
"And cute in an apron."
She snorted before she could stop herself.
"…Get back to work."
The Golden Hour Lull
By late afternoon, the sun had shifted across the front windows, casting long amber lines across the display cases. Most of the rush had passed. Only a few customers lingered at corner tables, nursing iced teas or reading paperbacks.
Amaya wiped down the espresso machine while Jay reorganized the packaging shelf.
"You always this helpful with your friends?" she asked suddenly.
Jay paused, tapping the edge of a box. "Not really."
She glanced over.
"I mean," he continued, "Tyler only trusts me to hold water bottles and insult the opposing team. Miles wouldn't ask for help even if he were on fire. Noah thinks asking for help is a performance. Emma would rather do everything alone."
"And me?"
Jay turned to look at her. "You actually let me help."
Amaya blinked once.
Then turned back to the machine. "Yeah… I guess I do."
The Last Tray
Just before closing, Amaya's parents returned — arms full of empty trays and cake boxes. Her mom barely made it through the door before grinning.
"Still alive?"
Amaya nodded. "Barely."
Her mom turned to Jay. "Did she yell at you?"
"Only three times."
"Progress."
Her dad walked up behind them. "The place looks good. Smells like you didn't burn anything."
"I had supervision," Jay said, glancing toward Amaya.
Her mom handed Jay a small paper bag. "Extra strawberry cream puffs. For effort."
Jay took it with both hands, offering a slight bow. "Appreciated."
"You're still family, Jay," she said, gently patting his shoulder. "Don't be a stranger."
He smiled softly.
"I won't."
Parting Words
As Jay untied the apron, Amaya leaned back against the prep table and watched him.
"You didn't have to stay the whole day."
"I wanted to," he said simply.
She hesitated. "You'll probably be bored again tomorrow."
He slipped on his shoes. "Most likely."
"Then… maybe stop by again."
Jay looked at her. "Maybe?"
She looked away. "Only if you wear the apron."
Jay grinned.
"No promises."
He walked to the door, the bag of pastries swinging slightly at his side.
"Hey, Amaya?"
She looked up.
"That customer was wrong, by the way."
She raised an eyebrow. "About what?"
"We'd make a terrible married couple."
Amaya tilted her head. "Yeah?"
"We'd never agree on frosting."
Amaya laughed — soft, real, eyes crinkling at the edges.
And Jay stepped out into the evening sun.