It took me two weeks to figure it out.

Two weeks of coming here, sitting at the same table, sipping coffee I barely remember ordering while watching him move behind the counter. Two weeks of seeing the pastries lined up neatly in the display case, never giving them a second thought.

And then, today, I overheard someone ask about the croissants.

"He makes them fresh every morning," the other barista had said, waving a hand toward him like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

I blinked. Stared at the pastries like they’d just materialized out of thin air.

He made them.

The guy I’ve been watching, the one I keep leaving these stupid notes for.

I don’t know why that detail sticks with me, why it makes something in my chest tighten just a little. Maybe it’s the idea of it—him in the early hours of the morning, flour dusted across his fingers, sleeves pushed up as he shapes dough with practiced ease. Maybe it’s the fact that I should’ve noticed sooner.

I smirk, shaking my head as I pull out my notepad.

"Two weeks in, and I finally realized—you’re the one behind the pastries. That’s cute. If only I liked sweets."

- J

I press the note down beside my empty cup, stand, and pull my coat over my shoulders.

As I step toward the door, I hesitate for half a second, then glance over my shoulder.

He’s at the espresso machine, focused, unaware.

Or maybe he’s just pretending to be.

Either way, I walk out with the thought lingering in my mind—

If I did like sweets, would that make a difference?