I inhale deeply, forcing a smile as I serve one cappuccino after another, grateful for the constant hum of activity. The orders come in fast. It’s easier this way. Busier is better. Busier means less time to think about him, about the strange tensionlingering between us, or the way his voice sounded just a little too sincere when he said it was good to see me.
I clear a table, tossing crumpled napkins into the bin with more force than necessary. Focus, Lila. Focus on what matters, Bloom and Brew, keeping everything afloat.
5 o’clock.
I yank open the supply cupboard, needing something, anything to distract me. Flour. Sugar. Rice flour. Perfect. I’ll bake something for tomorrow. Keep my hands busy so my brain doesn’t have time to spiral.
I grab my mum’s old recipe fornian gao, her favourite sticky rice cake. Mum always makesnian gaoduring Spring Festival. It’s supposed to bring good luck, right now we need all the luck we can get. I start mixing the ingredients. The motions are soothing, familiar, grounding me in a way that nothing else has since the moment Ben walked through that door. It’s ancient history. So what if he’s back? You’re a grown woman, not some heartbroken teenager.
As I stir the batter, the sweet scent of the nian gao fills the air, tugging me back to that spring afternoon.
We’re at school, sitting on a sun-warmed bench. Ben’s shoulders slump, his usual confidence replaced by a shy, almost embarrassed look.
“I forgot my lunch,” he mutters, kicking at the gravel beneath his feet.
I dig into my bag and pull out a small container. My mum’s nian gao, still warm.
“Here,” I offer, holding it out to him.
He looks at it, then at me, brow furrowed. “What’s that?”
“Nian gao. It’s sticky rice cake. My mum made it this morning.”
He hesitates for a second, then takes it, breaking off a piece and popping it into his mouth. His eyes light up.
“Damn, that’s good,” he says around a mouthful.
I laugh, relief flooding through me, until I hear the snickers from behind us.
“Gross,” someone mutters. “Weird Asian food.”
My stomach twists, heat rising in my cheeks, but before I can say anything, Ben turns to them, his jaw set.
“Shut the hell up,” he says, his voice sharp and confident again. “It’s better than whatever crap you’re eating.”
They go quiet, walking away with annoyed glances, and I suddenly like him even more than I already did.
That was the beginning.
Now, it’s the end.
I snap back to the present, blinking at the bowl of batter in front of me. My chest tightens, the weight of everything pressing down on me. I pour the batter into a pan and slide it into the oven, taking a deep breath to steady myself.
Footsteps shuffle behind me.
“Mum,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. “You should finish early. I’ll close up.”
She frowns. “Are you sure, love? I don’t mind staying.”
“I’m sure,” I say, giving her a small smile. “You’ve been on your feet all day. Go home, get some rest.”
She hesitates, then nods. “Okay. But don’t stay too late.”
“I won’t.”
She grabs her coat and leaves, the door closing softly behind her.
I glance toward the ceiling. The flat above the cafe iseverything to us—affordable, convenient, and close enough that my mum doesn’t have to travel far. We can’t lose this place. We wouldn’t find anything else like it in this area, not with our budget and Ben wants to take it away.
