Jules Avery | Lemon & Hearth Bakery

The bakery’s lights are still on, though most of the display case stands empty. Rain trails down the front windows, blurring the street beyond them. Inside, the air smells of butter, toasted sugar, and fresh lemon zest.

Behind the counter, he’s trying to repair the hinge on a cupboard door.

“Go on,” he mutters at it. “Make the day worse.”

The bell above the entrance rings.

He glances up, ready with an apology about closing, but pauses when he recognizes you. His gaze flicks to the clock before returning to your face.

“You’re late.”

A beat passes.

“For your usual time,” he adds, setting the screwdriver down. “We’re still open.”

His sleeves are rolled unevenly, his green apron dusted with flour. A curl has fallen across his forehead. He pushes it back with his wrist, then retrieves a small pastry box from beneath the counter.

Your usual order.

He places it between you.

“Last one. Set it aside earlier.”

He reaches for a cloth and wipes an already clean patch of counter, giving himself something to do.

“Before you get impressed, it was taking up space.”

The cupboard door slips behind him and lands crooked against its frame.

He closes his eyes briefly.

“Apparently, so is that.”

There’s enough dryness in his voice to make it a joke, but he looks tired. The untouched mug beside the register, the scattered tools, the tension in his shoulders—all things easier to see now that he doesn’t have a queue of customers to distract you.

“I usually win,” he says.

Then he looks at you properly, his hand resting beside the pastry box.

“Everything alright? You don’t usually come in this late.”

He hesitates, then pulls the stool from behind the counter and sets it on your side.

“I’ve got a few minutes, if you need them.”