Miles froze.
Hovering in the air, head inches from his soft, warm mattress, he waited and listened, unsure if he’d been hallucinating—but then it happened again. Three sharp knocks on his front door as real as anything.
Someone was out there.
Someone who’d come to see him.
Stomach exploding with butterflies, he bolted upright and launched himself out of bed in a mad rush to get to the door. It was Jun. It had to be Jun. Never mind the fact that he was currently streaming from his home in Los Angeles twothousand miles away, Miles’s heart had overridden every ounce of logic he possessed and decided this impossible outcome was the only explanation. He wasn’t expecting anything, after all—well, anything that would come in the mail—and his friends and family knew better than to show up unannounced.
Somehow, someway,it was Jun.
Forgetting propriety and eschewing stranger danger, he flung open the door without checking the peephole to see who was on the other side?—
—only for his heart to drop into his stomach.
It wasn’t Jun.
Ofcourseit wasn’t Jun.
It was Astrid. She was in her apron and had a box from the bakery balanced flat on her forearm. Had Miles not been so disappointed, he would have been confused—Astrid had no business being here. She was supposed to be on shift at work.
“Are you all right?” was the first thing he thought to ask, because why else would Astrid have come over if something wasn’t wrong? Then, “Is everything okay at the bakery?”
Astrid looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “What?”
“The bakery.” Miles gestured behind himself at the window, through which the bakery could be seen. “You know, where we work?”
“The bakery is fine.” She wrinkled her nose in confusion. “The better question is if you’re okay. I was weirded out when you placed an order for delivery despite living literally across the street, but I figured there had to be a good reason for it. But nowyou’re acting weird, too. Do I need to get you medical help? Do you need an intervention? Blink twice if there’s someone in your apartment holding you hostage. I’m not gonna save you, but I can at least notify the authorities.”
Miles blinked more than twice. “I… didn’t order anything for delivery.”
“Yes, you did.” Astrid whipped out her cell phone and spun it around so the screen was facing him. On it was an order placed through their mobile system with his first name and address. It was for a dozen croissants. “It came through about forty-five minutes ago, prepaid with a huge tip and everything. If you don’t want them, I guess I can take them back to the shop and Miriam and I can snack on them or something, but they’re technically yours.”
She put her phone away and held the box out to him.
Befuddled, Miles accepted it.
Had he been so consumed with his own anguish that he’d blacked out and ordered croissants without realizing it? Or maybe it was Miriam. It was possible she’d figured out his secret and sent him the croissants as a message. He’d told her about his pigeons, after all, and what better way was there to tell your employee-slash-potential-someday-business-partner that you knew he had a secret bun in the oven than by making reference to the birds nesting on his windowsill?
God, everything was happening so fast.
He’d thought he’d still had time to let everyone know before it got too obvious, but it looked like he’d messed that one up, too. Would Miriam be disappointed in him for hiding it from her, or were these croissants happy and congratulatory?
All the uncertainty was giving him a headache.
He never should have gotten out of bed.
“Okay,” Astrid said with a shrug. “I’m going back to work now. I’ll see you later.”
“Wait.” Miles took a deep breath, knowing he would regret it. “Are you sure Miriam didn’t send these? Like, you didn’t see her doing anything ominous in her office or… acting weird, or anything? Because unless something really strange happened, I’m sure I didn’t order these.”
“You’re right,” said a voice from farther down the hallway. “My bad. I did.”
Miles’s eyes widened.
The voice belonged to Jun.
Grip on the box of croissants tightening, Miles popped his head out through the door to witness Jun—actual, physical Jun and not some sad hallucination—emerge from the stairwell as though by magic. Hands tucked casually in the pockets of his jeans, he met Miles’s gaze and smiled, and Miles very nearly crushed his box of croissants.
