2

The bell above the door chimed, a soft, familiar sound that usually felt like a welcome. Today, it was just noise. I kept my head down, focusing on wiping down the same spot on the gleaming glass display case. The sweet, rich scent of coffee and sugar that usually comforted me now felt cloying, sticking in the back of my throat.

“Elliot, honey, if you polish that any harder, you’re going to wear a hole right through it.”

I jumped, nearly dropping the cloth. Mrs. Henderson stood there, her kind eyes crinkled with concern. She was a warm, round woman in her sixties, with flour often dusted on her apron and a perpetual smile for her customers and her “kids,” as she called her part-time staff.

“Sorry, Mrs. H,” I mumbled, moving the cloth to a different, perfectly clean section of the case.

“Rough day at school?” she asked, her voice gentle.

I just nodded, not trusting myself to speak. How could I possibly explain? The most popular boy in school thinks I’m a sick pervert and threatened to ruin my life. The words themselves felt dirty, unspeakable in the warm, safe glow of Whisper & Whiskers.

“Well, we’re slow right now. Why don’t you take a tray of the day-old honeycomb cruffins to the back and box them up for the shelter? It’ll be quiet. Give you a minute to breathe.”

I nodded again, grateful for the escape. In the back room, surrounded by sacks of flour and the industrial hum of the ovens, I could finally let my shoulders slump. The air was warm and smelled of yeast and caramelized sugar. I started carefully placing the pastries, their flaky, honey-drenched layers a stark contrast to the ugliness churning inside me.

You one of those… art fags?

The memory of his voice, so cold and sure, made my hands shake. I fumbled a cruffin, and it tumbled to the floor, a mess of pastry and honeycomb shards. I stared at it, the ruin feeling like a perfect representation of my afternoon.

“Whoa, easy there, Picasso. Those are still edible, you know.”

I looked up. Leo, one of the other part-timers, was leaning against the doorframe, a smirk on his face. He was a year older than me, a college freshman with a mop of curly black hair and a constant, easy-going confidence I envied.

“Sorry,” I muttered, bending down to clean up the mess.

“Don’t sweat it. Better than last week when Alex dropped the entire tray of lemon tarts. I’m still finding bits of curd in weird places.” He grabbed a broom and started sweeping up the pieces I’d missed. “So, what’s got you so jumpy? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

I stayed silent, focusing on picking up the sticky pieces of pastry. How could I tell him?

“Come on, man. Spill. Was it a test? Girl trouble?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Or… boy trouble?”

My head snapped up. Leo just grinned, his expression open and teasing, without a hint of malice. “Relax, I’m just messing with you. But seriously, you look miserable.”

The words felt lodged in my throat. “It was… just someone. At school.”

“Ah,” Leo said, his tone shifting to something more understanding. He finished sweeping and leaned on the broom handle. “Let me guess. One of the jock-bots from Northwood? They’re a different species, I swear. All muscle and no brain cells.”

A weak, watery smile touched my lips. “Something like that.”

“Look, whoever it was, don’t let them get to you. This,” he said, gesturing around the bakery, “this is real. This is good. You make amazing coffee, you have a killer eye for photography, and you don’t leave the milk steamer a crusty mess like Alex does. You’re one of the good ones, Elliot.”

His simple, unwavering praise was a balm on the raw wound Jax had left. It didn’t fix anything, but it reminded me that there was a world outside the hallways of Northwood Academy, a world where I wasn’t just a shadow or a pervert.

“Thanks, Leo,” I said, my voice a little steadier.

“Anytime. Now, stop moping and finish boxing these up. The shelter van will be here soon, and Mrs. H will have my hide if we’re not ready.”

He clapped me on the shoulder and headed back out front. I took a deep breath, the air filling my lungs with the scent of sugar and hope. I finished the task, the methodical rhythm of it calming my nerves.

Later, as I was taking an order for a latte at the counter, the bell chimed again. I looked up, and my heart stopped.

There, walking through the door of my sanctuary, was Jax Ryder. He wasn’t alone. He was with a couple of guys from the team, their laughter loud and boisterous as they scanned the menu. He hadn’t seen me yet, his attention on the display case filled with cruffins and eclairs.

My blood turned to ice. For a terrifying second, our eyes met across the cafe. His gaze, which had been lazily scanning the pastry display, sharpened. The casual arrogance in his posture didn’t change, but I saw the exact moment recognition dawned. His green eyes narrowed, and that familiar look of cold disgust settled onto his features.

I quickly looked down, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I felt dizzy. I focused on the order screen in front of me, the glowing buttons blurring. I could feel him walking towards the counter, each step a drumbeat of my impending doom. The two other players wandered off to claim a large table by the window, their loud voices fading into a meaningless buzz.

I kept my head bent, my bangs creating a curtain between us. I could feel the weight of his stare on the top of my head. I knew what he was thinking. I could feel his thoughts as clearly as if he were shouting them.

My fingers trembled as I pretended to input an order. I braced for it. For the sneered comment. For the low, threatening whisper. For him to call me a name right here in front of everyone and shatter the fragile peace I’d just managed to build.

“Hey.”

His voice was flat, devoid of the mocking warmth he used with his friends. It was just a sound, a command for service.

I forced myself to look up, but not at his eyes. I focused on the Northwood Academy logo on his jacket, right over his heart. “What can I get for you?” My voice was surprisingly steady, a quiet, professional monotone.

He didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, looking at me. The silence stretched, thick and heavy with his contempt. I could see his hand resting on the counter, his fingers, taped from practice, tapping once in impatience.

“Three large black coffees,” he said finally, the words clipped. “And three of those.” He gestured vaguely toward the honeycomb cruffins.

I nodded, turning to the pastries. My hands were still unsteady as I used the tongs to place the cruffins into a box. I could feel his eyes on my back, dissecting every move. I was hyper-aware of my own body, of the way I held myself, of every breath I took. I was sure he was finding fault with all of it.

I rang up the order, stating the total without looking at him. He slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. As I made change, my fingers brushed against his when I handed it back. A jolt, like touching a live wire, shot up my arm. I snatched my hand back as if burned.

He didn’t react. He just stood there, waiting, his presence a dark, oppressive cloud.

I turned to the espresso machine, the routine of grinding the beans and pulling the shots a small, familiar anchor. I filled three paper cups, snapped on the lids, and placed them carefully in a carrier. I slid the coffee carrier and the pastry box across the counter toward him.

He picked them up, his gaze never leaving me. He didn’t say “thanks.” He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me with that same, unwavering expression of pure, unadulterated revulsion, as if I were something he’d found stuck to the bottom of his cleat. It was worse than any threat. A threat would have acknowledged that we were two people in a conflict. This look said I wasn’t even a person.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked back to his friends’ table. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, my knees feeling weak. I watched him go, the confident swagger, the way his friends greeted him with easy smiles. He had come into my world, my one safe place, and without saying a single cruel word, he had made it feel contaminated. He had looked right through me and found nothing worth even his contemptuous words, just a lingering disgust that he carried away with him like a bad smell.