The Neighbor
Rhea POV
—
Four a.m. is an unholy hour.
The world is quiet, the streets are empty, and even the moon looks like it’s judging me.
Which is fair, honestly.
Because I am standing outside my brand-new bakery like a psycho ex-girlfriend, forehead pressed to the cold glass, breathing fog into the window as if the building might breathe back.
There’s flour on my cheek. Probably in my hair. Definitely in places flour shouldn’t be.
I look like the ghost of a failed dream.
And I refuse to be.
The sign above the door is barely visible in the dark, but I know it’s there. I can see it even with my eyes closed.
RHEA’S.
Simple. Clean. A little too bold, if you ask my brother.
Dalton thinks bold is a curse word. Like tattoos or red lipstick or orgasms.
But then again, he thinks I’m still a little kid.
It doesn’t help that we are ten years apart in age.
I swallow, staring through the glass into the darkness of my shop. The tables are there. The counter. The polished display case waiting to be filled.
Everything is ready.
Except the part where people actually come in.
Except the part where I make money.
Except the part where I don’t completely ruin my life.
I press my palm to the door like I’m taking its pulse.
“Please,” I whisper.
My voice sounds too loud in the quiet.
Like the universe is listening.
Which is a terrifying thought, because I don’t know if the universe likes me. It’s given me some pretty mixed signals so far.
Like supportive parents.
And a brother who loves me.
And best friends who would bury a body for me without asking questions.
But also…
Debt.
A lease I can barely afford.
A city full of people who don’t know my name.
And a dream that feels like it weighs more than my entire body.
I lean closer to the glass, my lips nearly touching it.
“I’m serious,” I murmur, like I’m talking to a person. Like I’m talking to God. “You have to work.”
My breath fogs up the window again.
For a second, I see my reflection, blurry and pale. My hair is in a messy bun, my hoodie is covered in flour and something sticky, and my eyes are wide like I’ve just committed a crime.
Which, technically, I have.
I’ve stolen everything I have and put it into this place.
Every penny. Every hour. Every piece of my sanity.
Because this is the only dream I have left.
Not that I’m dramatic or anything.
I shift my forehead against the glass, letting the cold sting a little. It helps. It keeps me awake.
It reminds me that this is real.
That I did it.
That I’m standing here, in the dark, with my hands shaking, because I finally got what I wanted.
I wanted it so badly I thought it would feel like fireworks.
Instead it feels like a knife in my ribs.
I exhale slowly.
Inside, the bakery is nothing but shadow and promise. The faint outline of my ovens sits in the back like sleeping beasts. Stainless steel, money, and risk.
I can practically smell tomorrow already.
Butter. Vanilla. Sugar melting into something sinful.
I close my eyes.
I imagine the bell over the door ringing. The sound of laughter. Customers pointing at the display case with greedy little smiles. Kids with frosting on their mouths. Couples sharing bites of dessert like it’s foreplay.
I imagine my hands moving fast, confident, making things that shouldn’t exist but do anyway.
Like lavender espresso cupcakes designed like a galaxy.
Like rosemary caramel croissants shaped like animals.
Like the dark chocolate chili macarons I’m going to pretend aren’t a sex thing.
I open my eyes again and stare into the emptiness.
“Don’t let me fail,” I whisper.
My throat tightens.
Because failing isn’t just embarrassing.
Failing means I have to crawl back to my parents’ house with my tail between my legs, pretending I didn’t swear I’d do it on my own.
If that happens… I don’t know what I’ll do.
Because I don’t have another dream lined up. I don’t have a Plan B.
I have this.
And I have myself.
Which is, frankly, a terrifying combination.
A car passes down the street, headlights sliding over the glass like a spotlight. For a second I’m lit up, fully exposed, caught in the act of being pathetic.
Then it’s gone.
And it’s just me again.
Me and the dark and the building that owns my entire soul.
I straighten, wiping at my cheek.
Flour smears worse.
Perfect.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I don’t even have to look to know who it is.
Because only one person is awake at four a.m. besides me.
Lila.
I pull it out.
LILA: You better not be outside that bakery again like a haunted Victorian child.
My lips twitch.
I type back with my thumb.
ME: I am not haunted. I am motivated.
LILA: Motivated people sleep.
ME: Successful people don’t.
LILA: Successful people also don’t get arrested for loitering.
I snort quietly, the sound sharp in the stillness.
She’s right. I probably look like I’m about to break in.
Technically I have the keys, but strangers don’t know that.
I glance down the street again, then back at the door.
My fingers curl around the keyring in my pocket like a talisman.
The metal bites into my palm.
This is mine.
This place.
This dream.
Tomorrow, the doors open.
Tomorrow, I become the girl who made it.
Or the girl who tried and got swallowed whole.
I press my hand to the glass one last time.
“Just… please,” I whisper again.
Then I pull back.
Turn.
And start walking to my car.
The air is cold enough to hurt. My breath comes out in pale clouds.
I’m halfway to the curb when the streetlight flickers.
Once.
Twice.
And then steadies.
I freeze.
Not because I’m scared of the dark. I’m not. The dark doesn’t bother me.
It’s what the dark hides that makes my stomach tighten.
I glance back at the bakery before my eyes drift across the street.
And that’s when I see it.
A figure.
Standing at the corner of the opposing building, half-shadowed, hands in his pockets, like he’s been there the whole time.
Tall.
Still.
Watching.
My heart slams against my ribs so hard I swear I hear it.
“What the hell?” I mutter under my breath.
The streetlight flickers again. And doesn’t come back on.
