She sighs, setting down her piping bag, and turns to face me fully.
"Lanek."
"They are meat and cheese, Quinn. They do not require artistic arrangement. People will eat them regardless of the aesthetic presentation."
"People eat with their eyes first," she counters, poking me firmly in the center of my chest with one flour-dusted finger. "We've been over this. Presentation matters. If you just pile everything onto the board like you're feeding a pack of wolves, it looks sloppy and uninviting."
"I am feeding a pack of wolves," I point out reasonably. "Have you seen the lunch crowd in this neighborhood? They descend like locusts."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
She narrows her eyes at me, and I bite back a grin. I love arguing with her. I love the way her cheeks flush pink and her voice takes on that sharp, articulate edge that means she is gearing up to verbally dismantle my logic piece by piece.
"The point," she says slowly, "is that we are a team. And if I'm going to spend hours making these pastries look perfect, you're going to spend an extra five minutes making your charcuterie boards look equally perfect. Got it?"
I lean down and kiss her firmly, tasting buttercream and coffee and that particular flavor of exasperation that means she is barely holding back a smile.
"Got it," I rumble against her mouth.
"Good." She pulls back, smoothing down her apron with brisk efficiency. "Now go fix them before people start arriving."
I return to my station and begin rearranging the sample platters with exaggerated care, fanning out the prosciutto in precise, overlapping layers and distributing the cornichons and mustard dollops with mathematical precision. It is unnecessary and fussy and entirely Quinn's influence.
I love it.
The front door chimes at exactly seven o'clock.
Our first customer is Mrs. Ling from the dry cleaners three blocks over. She has been a loyal patron of Quinn's bakery since the day it opened, and she arrives now with a beautifully wrapped gift basket and a wide smile.
"Congratulations, you two," she says warmly, setting the basket on the counter. "I always knew you would figure it out eventually."
Quinn laughs, her cheeks flushing pink.
"Thank you, Mrs. Ling. That's very kind."
"Kind nothing. You were shouting at each other in the alley for six months straight. The entire neighborhood had bets going on whether you'd kill each other or kiss each other." She winks at me. "I won fifty dollars."
I grin, showing teeth.
"Glad to be of service."
More customers filter in steadily throughout the morning. Some are familiar faces from Quinn's bakery, drawn by loyalty and curiosity. Others are new, lured by the unusual concept and the aroma of smoked meat drifting out onto the street. A few are clearly my usual clientele, gruff and taciturn, who eye the pastel pink walls with deep suspicion but queue up anyway because they trust my cuts.
By ten o'clock, the line stretches out the front door.
Quinn handles the pastry orders with her usual bright efficiency, chatting warmly with customers, remembering names and preferences, upselling custom cake orders with effortless charm. I manage the meat counter, slicing premium cuts to order, assembling sandwiches on thick slabs of her fresh-baked sourdough, and glaring at anyone who lingers too long without buying anything.
It works.
We work.
Around noon, the lunch rush hits in full force. The small seating area we carved out near the front windows fills completely. The air is thick with conversation, laughter, the clink of cutlery against plates. The fragrance of woodsmoke and vanilla mingles into something entirely unique, something that belongs only to this space, this partnership, this life we built together.
I am slicing a particularly beautiful ribeye for a regular customer when Quinn appears at my elbow, balancing a small porcelain plate in one hand.
"Taste test," she announces, holding up a delicate macaron the color of fresh strawberries.
