Cole
The last customerleaves at 6:05p.m., a stick-thin older woman with a weekly standing order: two Cornish pasties and a Chelsea bun. The bell above the bakery door chirrups behind her when she leaves, leaving the place quieter than it’s been all day.
I glance around. Gage and Esmé are already doing the nightly ritual of wiping down tables, sweeping up, and pretending not to listen to my private conversations but always keeping one ear on me. Helena sits still tucked in the corner she’s been in all day hunched over my laptop she asked for after the first hour. Zane left at some point to start cooking dinner back at their flat. But she stayed here, honey scent infiltrating every nook and cranny of my bakery.
I’ve never had an omega stay after hours before, at least not in a way that wasn’t transactional. Helena’s presence is different. It’s charged, yeah, but also quietly companionable. A rare thing. I give it another five minutes, just in case she wants to leave on her own, but when I catch her glancing at me through her curtain of hair, I know she’s waiting for something. Me, probably. Or maybe for herself, to work up the nerve.
Gage and Esmé leave. The overhead lights hum as I flip them to night mode, making the bakery feel like a fish tank.Everything is now clearer and more intimate than it should be. I head toward her, pressing my palms together, and try not to make it weird.
“Do you want me to make you a box for the flat?” I gesture to the half-crumbled scone on her plate.
She jumps a little, then closes the laptop. “No, thanks. I’m good.” There’s honey in her voice, as always, but a tiredness too. I notice the faint shadow beneath her eyes—a side effect of too much coffee or a full day staring at business marketing plans. “Actually, Cole? Could I show you something before you start the mop?”
“Sure.”
She gestures for me to sit. I perch on the bench across from her, noticing the way she subtly pulls her scent in, almost bracing herself.
She produces a stack of papers from her bag and slides them across. The first page is a hand-lettered title in her neat, looping script: SEAMUSE BAKERY—SUMMER CAMPAIGN.
I blink. “You made this?”
She nods, twisting her lips as if embarrassed. “It’s just some ideas. From what you wrote in your notes about wanting to make the bakery more destination-y? I did some mockups and a sample Instagram grid—a bunch of other stuff. It’s just a first pass.”
I flip through the pages. There are color palettes and brand voice notes, even a marketing calendar with cute, little doodles for each theme week. The whole thing is professional. Not the kind of thing you put together over a single sleepless night. And she did it over the course of a day.
Helena is a godsend.
“I thought you were just here to eat pastries and judge me.” I’m aiming for a joke but end up more sincere. “This is incredible.”
She blushes and tucks her hair behind her ear. “I didn’t want to be pushy. You don’t have to use any of it. Worst case, this was a fun exercise to show I can still do this sort of thing.”
I look at her. In that moment, I see past the shimmer and polish of her high-society finish. She wants this. Maybe not the bakery, but the chance to be useful, the chance to matter somewhere that isn’t curated for her or part of some omega duty.
“Helena, this would cost a fortune if I hired a real marketing firm.” I immediately regret my wording. “Not that you aren’t real. Or don’t deserve payment. You know what I mean.”
She laughs, a burst of delight that lights up the space between us. “It’s nice to know that if I weren’t bound by familial duty, I could actually do this as a career.” Her expression clouds.
I nudge the papers. “Youshouldbe doing this back home. Running a place, or?—”
She shakes her head, eyes going distant. “I spent the last few years at Omega Finishing School. I’m supposed to be in my ‘off-cycle’ period before Selection Day in the fall. My parents think I’m here to… reflect on my place in the world.” She says it with a wry twist, mocking the phrase even as she’s beholden to it.
“Selection Day,” I repeat. The words feel heavy in my mouth. “Sounds like a livestock auction.”
She laughs, but it’s brittle. “Not far off. Anyway, once that’s over, I’m expected to just… you know.” She makes a rolling gesture, as if spinning the dial on a washing machine. “Omega things. Pack things. I liked marketing, but apparently, it’s not a proper pursuit for a Starling.”
That surprises me. “So you’re just supposed to sit in a pretty house until someone buys you?”
She looks at me sharply, and I realize too late how harsh that sounds. But instead of bristling, she sighs. “Sometimes it feels like that, yes.”
Even though you’re clearly scent-matched already, with your own bodyguard and two alphas in a seaside village who’d make you plenty happy.
I want to say it. I manage not to.
We’re both quiet for a minute. I flip through more of her plans. They’re smart. I can see the bakery as she imagines it: bustling, Instagram-famous. Hosting pop-up events in nearby towns. All things I’d never have thought to do or wouldn’t have the balls to do on my own.
I’m easy and outgoing when inside my own bakery. But outside of these four walls? Absolutely not.
“I think you should do what makes you happy,” I finally say, softer now. “Even if it’s not what your family wants. Even if it’s not what you thought you wanted. You’re always allowed to change your mind.”
