A sharp knock dragged me from the depths of sleep,not the kind of gentle, patient knock that gave you time to gather your thoughts. No, this one was firm, rhythmic, and increasingly annoyed.
"Kaira. Get up."
I groaned, barely lifting my face from the pillow. My limbs felt like they were weighed down with cement, exhaustion curling around my body like a second skin. I squinted against the pale sliver of morning light creeping through the curtains, trying to remember what time it was, why I even needed to wake up
Then I heard her voice again.
"I swear, if I have to knock one more time—"
"Okay, okay," I croaked, my voice thick with sleep. "I'm up."
Lies.
I was not up.
Elena wasn't buying it either. The door creaked open, and I could feel her presence before I even turned my head.
"You don't look up," she said flatly.
With great effort, I forced my eyes open and turned my head toward the doorway. My aunt stood there in her usual work attire—black slacks, a crisp button-up, her dark hair twisted into a flawless bun that meant business. A travel mug of coffee was in one hand, her phone in the other, and her expression was already somewhere between mildly unimpressed and fully exasperated.
"You know what time it is?"
I reached blindly for my phone on the nightstand, but I already knew. Too late.
Elena took a slow sip of her coffee, watching me struggle like I was some sad, half-dead bird that had flown into a window. "You're going to be late."
"No shit," I muttered, forcing myself upright. The room tilted for a second, and I pressed a hand to my forehead, trying to shake the exhaustion off. My brain felt muddy, thick with leftover dreams—flashes of shadows, the press of a hand on my wrist, the echo of a voice—
I shoved it away.
Elena gave me a once-over, frowning slightly. "Late night?"
I swung my legs over the bed and scrubbed a hand over my face. "You could say that."
Her frown deepened, but she didn't pry. Instead, she jerked her head toward the hallway. "Get dressed and come eat. You have ten minutes before you need to be out that door."
I didn't argue. I barely had time to yank on a pair of jeans and pull a sweater over my head before I stumbled into the kitchen.
The smell of coffee, butter, and toasted bread filled the air, wrapping around me like a warm cocoon. Elena was already at the small dining table, scrolling through her emails while she absently sipped her coffee.
A plate was waiting for me—scrambled eggs, toast, and a few slices of apple.
I sat down and picked up my fork, but my stomach wasn't particularly interested in food. I chewed mechanically, my brain still lagging, still caught somewhere between last night and the weight of the morning ahead.
Elena didn't look up from her phone. "You have to eat faster than that."
I barely swallowed a bite before sighing. "How are you so awake already?"
"I function on caffeine and responsibility," she said dryly.
"Sounds exhausting."
"Sounds like adulthood."
I snorted and took another bite of toast. But I could feel her watching me now, the weight of her attention shifting from her emails to me.
"You look like hell," she said finally.
I huffed a quiet laugh. "Wow. Thanks."
She set her phone down, studying me more intently. "I'm serious, Kaira. You've been acting… off."
I froze for half a second before forcing another casual bite of toast. "I've just been tired."
Her brow lifted. "Tired from what?"
I chewed slower. "Life?"
Elena didn't look convinced.
I felt her hesitation—the unspoken weight of something she wanted to ask but wasn't sure if she should.
Finally, she exhaled. "You'd tell me if something was going on, right?"
I hesitated.
Because would I?
Would I tell her about the way my stomach tightened when Vladimir looked at me? About the way he moved, so sure, so controlled, like he knew things I didn't? Would I tell her that, despite every warning sign, a small part of me wasn't sure I wanted to stay away?
No.
I forced a smile. "Of course."
She searched my face for another second before sighing. "Alright. But you really need to—"
I glanced at the clock. 7:57 a.m.
Panic jolted through me. "Shit."
I shoved the last bite of toast into my mouth, grabbed my bag, and nearly tripped over my own feet trying to get to the door.
Elena smirked. "Try not to get fired."
"No promises."
At Rossi's Bakery.
By the time I burst through the glass door, I was twelve minutes late.
The scent of freshly baked bread and cinnamon filled the air, normally comforting—but right now?
It felt like a death sentence.
The morning rush was already in full swing. Customers crowded small tables, the espresso machine whirred loudly, the cash register clinked, and behind the counter—
Mr. Rossi.
Arms crossed. Brow furrowed. Fury level: medium-to-high.
I barely had time to adjust my apron before his voice cut through the air.
"Kaira."
Shit.
I gave him my most pathetic, hopeful smile. "Morning, boss."
"Morning?" he echoed, his voice dangerously calm. "You're late. Again."
"I know, but—"
"Do you know what time we open?"
I swallowed. "Seven-thirty?"
"Seven-thirty." He threw up his hands. "And yet, here you are, strolling in at eight-fifteen like this is a social event."
I winced. "It won't happen again."
He snorted. "It will absolutely happen again."
…Fair.
Rossi sighed, rubbing a flour-dusted hand over his face. "Just get to work."
I didn't argue. I threw myself into the job—pouring coffees, boxing pastries, taking orders. The rhythm was familiar, grounding, something I could focus on to drown out the lingering unease in my chest.
For a while, it worked.
The bell above the bakery door chimed,a small, ordinary sound. One I'd heard hundreds of times before.
But this time, it felt different.
Like the shift in air before a storm, a ripple of awareness ran through me before I even looked up.
And then— there he was.
Vladimir.
He stepped inside with the kind of presence that drew attention, even though he wasn't flashy about it. His movements were controlled, measured, like he was used to walking into rooms where he already knew how things would unfold.
His dark eyes flicked across the bakery, scanning the space, taking in the too-bright lights, the scent of fresh bread and sugar, the customers tucked into their little tables.
Then, he found me.
My fingers curled around the edge of the counter, for a second, neither of us moved.
The sounds of the bakery—chatter, the steaming of milk, the clinking of metal against ceramic—faded into something distant.He walked toward the counter with deliberate ease, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world, I forced myself to breathe. Forced my pulse to slow.
I had told myself—lied to myself—that last night had been nothing. That I wouldn't see him again.
Clearly, I was wrong.
"Morning," he said.
His voice was smooth, steady. Unshaken.
As if nothing had happened.
As if we were nothing more than a barista and a customer, exchanging simple pleasantries.
I cleared my throat. "Morning."The word barely made it past my lips.
Vladimir's gaze didn't waver. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, like he was studying me, like he was looking for something. I busied myself reaching for a rag, wiping an invisible coffee ring from the counter. Anything to put a little space between us.
He didn't say anything right away, just let the silence stretch between us. Not awkward, not impatient—just… waiting. Finally, he glanced up at the menu, though I had the distinct feeling he wasn't actually reading it.
"Coffee," he said eventually. "Black."
Of course.
Simple. Straightforward. No sugar, no softness.
Just like him.
"Sure," I said, keeping my voice neutral. I turned to start the brew, pressing the button on the machine.
But I could feel him watching me.
Not in a way that most customers did—not in an absentminded, waiting for my order way.
No, Vladimir's attention was pointed. Focused, like he was trying to see something beneath my skin.
My hands were steady as I reached for a cup. I made sure of it.
"Busy morning?" he asked lightly.
I kept my back to him. "It's a bakery. Mornings are always busy."
A soft hum. "I suppose they are."
I poured the coffee, willing my hands to keep moving like normal. Like nothing was off, finally I turned back, placing the cup on the counter between us.
His fingers brushed mine as he took it, a fleeting touch. Barely a second.
And yet—it wasn't nothing.
My skin buzzed in the places where our hands had met. I resisted the instinct to pull away too fast, to shake off whatever the hell that was.
Vladimir didn't move.
Didn't sip the coffee.
Didn't leave.