The storage room still smelled like them. Godji noticed it first—something sharp and sweet layered over the dust and flour, a scent that didn't belong. She'd come down early to prep the morning batch, her apron already dusted white, and now her fingers brushed against something cold and sticky on the concrete floor near the prep table.
She frowned, knelt. The spill was bigger than a drop, smaller than a puddle, a pale opaque smear that caught the buzzing single-bulb light. She touched it again. Her thumb came away slick.
Godji sniffed. Sweet. But wrong.
She looked around. The shelves were undisturbed, bags of sugar and flour in their places, nothing knocked over. But near the leg of the stainless steel table, another wet patch gleamed.
Her hand found the second one. Cold. Drying. And suddenly, the scent clicked—that unmistakable, intimate salt-sweetness. The kind that came from bodies, not baking.
"Phuwin!"
The scream tore out of her throat before she could stop it. She was already on her feet, her knees popping, her slippers slapping against the concrete as she bolted for the back sink. The rag she grabbed was rough and gray, and she drenched it under the tap, scrubbing at the first patch with furious, automatic movements. Then the second. Then she stopped, straightened, and let the rag fall.
"Phuwin!"
Footsteps pounded on the stairs above. Heavy, stumbling, frantic. Then the door to the storage room banged open and Phuwin appeared, his brown bangs a tangled mess over his eyes, wearing only a pair of loose shorts and an old t-shirt so thin it was nearly see-through. His chest heaved. His eyes were red-rimmed, dark circles carved deep beneath them.
"What—" he started, breathless.
Godji's hand shot out and smacked the back of his head.
"Ow!" He stumbled forward, one hand flying to the spot. "Aunty!"
"You think I wouldn't find out?" Her voice was sharp, but her eyes were wild—somewhere between fury and amusement. She pointed at the damp patches on the floor. "In my storage room? On my concrete?"
Phuwin's face went scarlet. He looked at the floor, at her, at the floor again. His mouth opened and closed.
Godji's hand moved again, faster this time. She yanked off her left slipper—a thick rubber flip-flop, the kind that left welts—and brandished it like a weapon.
"Run," she said.
Phuwin's eyes went wide. Then a laugh—hoarse, surprised, almost hysterical—broke out of him. He bolted for the back door, his feet slapping on the concrete, his thin t-shirt flapping around his narrow waist.
Godji was on his heels, the slipper raised. "You little—"
He made it to the back door, fingers fumbling with the latch, but she was faster. The slipper came down mid-stride, catching him square across the ass with a crack that echoed in the small room.
Phuwin yelped, stumbling forward, banging his hip against the doorframe. He was laughing and gasping at the same time, one hand clutching his ass, the other still working the latch.
"That's for disrespecting my bakery!" Godji yelled, but she was laughing too now, breathless and bright.
From the top of the stairs, two figures appeared. Siyh leaned against the railing, her long black hair a tangled curtain around her face, still in her sleep clothes—an oversized hoodie and shorts. Santa stood beside her, glasses pushed up, button-up shirt half-untucked.
They watched the scene below with the dazed, exhausted smiles of people who hadn't slept well and were too tired to be surprised.
"Did she hit him with the slipper?" Siyh asked, her voice hoarse.
"Classic," Santa said. "I told you she'd find out."
Phuwin finally got the latch open and tumbled out into the narrow alley behind the bakery, the morning light gray and cool. Godji followed, stopping at the threshold, the slipper still raised. She didn't chase him further—just stood there, breathing hard, the amusement winning over the anger.
"Get back in here and help me clean," she called. "And then we're going to talk about what exactly happened on my prep table."
Phuwin, bent over with his hands on his knees, looked up at her through his bangs. His face was still red, but the laughter had softened something in him. The dark circles were still there, the weight behind his eyes, but for a moment, he looked like a kid caught stealing cookies.
"It wasn't the prep table," he said.
Godji's eyebrow arched. "Then what was it?"
"The floor."
She threw the slipper at him. It bounced off his shoulder and he caught it, laughing again, holding it out like a peace offering.
Slowly, they made their way back inside. Siyh and Santa had come down the stairs, barefoot now, and were leaning against the counter that separated the storage area from the main bakery. The shop was still dark, the front blinds drawn, the display cases empty. Morning light crept through the edges of the curtains, casting long shadows across the tiled floor.
Godji retrieved her slipper from Phuwin's hand, slipped it back on, and crossed to the sink. She began scrubbing her hands, the water running hot.
"I'm not mad," she said, not turning around. "I'm just disappointed I didn't get to witness it."
Siyh snorted. Santa bit his lip.
Phuwin groaned, burying his face in his hands. "You're all impossible."
"Where is he?" Godji asked, drying her hands on a towel. "The boy with the biceps? The one you've been mooning over?"
The room went quiet.
Phuwin's hands dropped. He looked at the floor. The laughter drained out of him like water from a cracked cup.
"He left," Siyh said softly. "Last night. He said he needed time."
Godji's face changed. The playfulness vanished, replaced by something sharper, more careful. She looked at Phuwin, who hadn't moved, hadn't looked up.
"I see," she said quietly.
Santa cleared his throat. "He's not gone forever. He's just—processing."
Siyh shot him a look. "That's the generous version."
The front door of the bakery creaked. Not the back—the front, the one that led to the street. The bell above it chimed, a thin, cheerful sound that cut through the heavy air.
Everyone turned.
But before anyone could react, a phone rang from the counter. Phuwin's phone. The screen lit up, glowing in the dim light, and the name on the display was unmistakable: Pond.
The ringtone filled the silence. One note. Two. Three.
Phuwin stared at it. His hand hovered, not quite reaching. His fingers twitched, then stilled.
The front door creaked again—footsteps, soft and careful, crossing the threshold into the bakery's main room.
And the phone stopped ringing.
Godji's eyes were fixed on the front door, her body angled like she was ready for anything. Siyh and Santa stood frozen, their breath held, their eyes flicking between Phuwin's phone and the darkened shop.
Phuwin turned.
Someone was standing just inside the front door, their silhouette backlit by the morning light seeping through the curtained windows. Tall. Broad-shouldered. A gold chain catching the dim glow.
The figure didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, breathing, as the last note of the ringtone faded into the dusty air.
Phuwin's heart slammed against his ribs. His hand fell to his side.
And in the silence, the only sound was the ticking of the ceiling fan, and the soft, ragged exhale of someone who had been waiting all night.