It was a bright, sunny morning in Paris, and Gaesha was awake earlier than usual.
She stood just outside her little bakery, holding a wicker basket filled with fresh pastries in her arms.
Her dark hair was still messy from sleep, sticking out in funny directions. She hadn't even brushed it yet.
Yesterday, one of her regular customers had mentioned that Kent was working on an old chateau not too far from her shop, somewhere near Sacré-Cœur.
Gaesha couldn't stop thinking about him all night—his grumpy frown, those sharp blue eyes that seemed to see right through everything. She'd tossed and turned, and now she had a plan.
"I'll say I'm sorry," she mumbled to herself, shifting the basket to sit better on her hip. "With food. Who doesn't like food? Everyone loves a good pastry."
She turned the key in the bakery door, locking it with a little click, and started walking down the street.
The city was already alive—people rushed by with bags, bikes whizzed past, and a few dogs barked at each other.
Gaesha hummed a happy little tune, stepping to the side to avoid a tall man carrying a giant baguette under his arm.
"Good morning!" she called out to an older lady sweeping the steps of her house. The lady looked up, smiled, and waved back with a quick flick of her hand.
The chateau site wasn't hard to spot once Gaesha got closer. It was an old, crumbling building with cracked stone walls and a tall, rusty fence wrapped around it.
Men in bright yellow hard hats moved back and forth, carrying hammers, planks of wood, and big metal tools.
Gaesha stopped at the gate and peeked through the bars, her eyes scanning the busy scene for Kent.
She didn't see him anywhere, but then she spotted Mark, his coworker. She remembered Mark from the festival a few weeks ago—he'd been the friendly one, always laughing.
"Hey, Mark!" Gaesha shouted, waving her free hand high in the air so he'd notice her.
Mark turned around, saw her standing there, and broke into a wide grin. "Gaesha! Hey! What are you doing all the way out here?"
"I'm looking for Kent," she said, lifting the basket a little higher to show it off. "I brought something for him. It's to say sorry."
Mark walked over to her, wiping his dusty hands on the front of his jeans. "You're trouble, aren't you? Always stirring something up. What's in that basket?"
"Just pastries," Gaesha said with a shrug. "And a little note too. But don't tell him it's from me, okay? I want it to be a surprise."
Mark let out a big laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "A secret apology? That's crazy, Gaesha. You're something else. Hand it over, then."
Gaesha reached into the basket and pulled out a small white box. Inside was a flaky croissant, still warm from the oven, and a folded piece of paper taped to the top.
"Put this somewhere he'll find it," she said, passing it to Mark. "And act normal when you give it to him. Don't make it obvious."
"I'm terrible at acting," Mark said, taking the box from her hands. "But I'll give it a shot. Just so you know, he's in a bad mood today. Grumpier than usual."
"Perfect," Gaesha said, her grin growing wider. "Maybe this will cheer him up a little."
"Or maybe it'll make him even grumpier," Mark said, raising an eyebrow. "Guess we'll see. Catch you later, Gaesha."
"Bye!" she called, giving him a quick wave. She turned around and started skipping back toward her bakery, giggling to herself the whole way.
The note she'd written was silly—she'd scribbled it in a hurry with a pen that kept smudging all over her fingers.
It said: "Hey, Grumpy Kent! Sorry about your suit. Here's a treat. Don't frown too much—it's bad for your face. —A Friend."
At the bottom, she'd drawn a tiny smiley face with a wobbly smile, just to make it fun.
Back at the chateau site, Kent was sitting inside a small trailer, hunched over a table covered in blueprints.
His jacket was off, tossed over a chair, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows. He liked things neat—straight lines, clear numbers, solid plans.
The chateau was a disaster, all broken walls and tangled wires, and it was his job to make it right again. He didn't have time for anything—or anyone—getting in his way.
Mark pushed open the trailer door and stepped inside, holding the little box Gaesha had given him.
"Hey, Kent," he said, trying to sound casual, though his voice was a bit too loud. "I found this outside. It's for you."
Kent looked up from his papers, his forehead creasing into a deep frown. "What is it?" he asked, his tone sharp.
"No clue," Mark said, shrugging his shoulders like it was no big deal. "Just open it and find out."
Kent reached out and took the box, eyeing it like it might bite him. He peeled off the tape carefully and saw the folded note first.
He opened it, his eyes moving over the messy handwriting, and his frown got even deeper. "Grumpy Kent?" he said out loud, his voice flat. "Who wrote this nonsense?"
"No idea," Mark said, turning his head to stare at the wall so Kent wouldn't see his grin. "What does it say?"
"'Sorry about your suit,'" Kent read slowly, his fingers tightening on the paper. "'Here's a treat.' This is ridiculous."
He flipped open the box and saw the croissant sitting there, golden and buttery. "A pastry? Seriously?"
Mark smirked, leaning against the doorframe. "Looks like someone likes you."
"Someone's annoying," Kent shot back. He dropped the note onto the table and stared at the croissant like it had insulted him. "This is her, isn't it? That girl. Gaesha."
"Maybe," Mark said, crossing his arms. "She's got guts, sneaking this all the way here."
"She's got no sense," Kent muttered. But then his lips twitched—just a tiny bit, like he was fighting a smile.
He covered it up fast, pressing his mouth into a hard line. "I don't want this thing."
"Then eat it," Mark said, nodding at the box. "It's free food. Who says no to that?"
"I don't like sweets," Kent said, pushing the box away with his fingertips. "Throw it out."
"No chance," Mark said, reaching for it. "If you won't eat it, I will."
Kent yanked the box back before Mark could grab it. "Fine," he said, his voice gruff. "I'll keep it. But I'm not eating it."
"Sure you won't," Mark said, grinning like he knew better. "You're keeping that note too, huh?"
Kent grabbed the note and stuffed it into his pocket, the paper crinkling loudly. "It's evidence," he said. "She's a menace. I might need proof later."
"A cute menace," Mark teased, winking at him. "Come on, admit it—you're flattered."
"I'm not," Kent snapped. He stood up, grabbed his jacket, and slung it over his shoulder. "Let's get back to work. We're wasting time."
They walked out of the trailer together, and Kent tucked the box under his arm. Outside, he set it down on a rickety table near the fence, leaving it there like he'd forgotten it.
He didn't touch the croissant, but he didn't toss it in the trash either. The note stayed in his pocket, making a soft rustling sound every time he took a step.
Later that afternoon, Kent sat by himself on a bench, eating a plain sandwich he'd brought from home. His eyes kept drifting over to the little white box on the table.
"Stupid," he muttered under his breath, taking another bite of his bread. "Who even does something like this?"
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the note again, unfolding it carefully. "Don't frown too much," he said, reading her words out loud in a mocking tone. "Bad for my face. Ha. Very funny."
He glanced around quickly, checking that no one was watching him, then let a small smile sneak onto his face.
It felt odd, like his cheeks weren't sure how to move that way. He crumpled the note back up and shoved it deep into his pocket, shaking his head.
"She's crazy," he said to himself, standing up and brushing crumbs off his pants. "And I'm not keeping this stuff."
But when Kent left the site that night, the little box was still tucked into his bag, nestled between his tools and his water bottle.
As he walked home through the quiet Paris streets, that tiny smile crept back onto his face—just for a second—before he shook it off and kept going.