The smell of sugar hit before the chaos did.  

It was supposed to be a quiet morning—just Daphne, a new dessert recipe, and the promise of peace before the lunch rush. But peace, as she had learned, didn’t survive long in the Merry Spoon.  

“Finn!” she yelled from the kitchen. “Did you measure the sugar or eyeball it again?”  

“Technically both!” came the cheerful answer.  

“That’s not—” she stopped mid-sentence as the oven let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like betrayal. A thin ribbon of smoke curled up toward the ceiling.  

Caius, who had been filming a “behind the scenes” clip, lowered his camera slowly. “Is this part of the charm or the prequel to a fire?”  

“Don’t just stand there!” Daphne grabbed an oven mitt and yanked open the door. What greeted her was less cake, more meteorite—charred, deflated, and somehow still mocking her.  

Finn peeked in from behind her. “It’s… modern art?”  

“It’s trauma,” Daphne said flatly.  

Caius tried to hold back a grin. “To be fair, it smells… committed.”  

She glared at him. “Do you want to eat it?”  

“Only if we’re doing a challenge video.”  

“Out.” She pointed at both of them. “You’re banned from the kitchen.”  

“Hey,” Finn protested, “I was following your directions!”  

“Then the directions were wrong!”  

Caius folded his arms, amused. “Wow. Watching two people argue about a burnt cake might be the most authentic thing I’ve filmed all week.”  

“Then congratulations,” she snapped. “You’ve captured despair in 4K.”  

He grinned. “Perfect. I’ll call it ‘The Joy of Failure.’”  

“Out!”  

They fled laughing, and for a brief second, Daphne couldn’t help smiling. The air still smelled like smoke and sugar, but it also smelled like life—messy, ridiculous, real.  

An hour later, Mira arrived, dressed as if she’d come straight from a board meeting. The first thing she noticed was the faint scorch mark on the ceiling.  

“I’m afraid to ask,” she said.  

“Don’t,” Daphne replied. “It was an experiment.”  

“Explosions count as experiments now?”  

“Progress sometimes requires combustion.”  

Caius, lounging by the counter, added, “We’ve entered our pyrotechnic phase.”  

Mira pinched the bridge of her nose. “Do either of you understand what a health inspection is?”  

“Not emotionally,” Daphne said.  

“I’m calling the fire department next time,” Mira muttered. “And not because of romance.”  

By lunch, the restaurant filled again—some regulars, some newcomers who claimed they “found it online.”  

One woman leaned over the counter and whispered, “Are you the girl from the burnt cake video?”  

Daphne froze. “That went online?”  

Caius looked up innocently. “Oops.”  

“Oops?” she repeated. “You filmed my breakdown?”  

“Correction: I filmed your perseverance.”  

“You’re lucky I don’t bake people.”  

Finn giggled behind the soda machine. “Too late for that smell to disappear.”  

The lunch crowd didn’t seem to mind. If anything, they seemed entertained. Laughter rippled through the room when Daphne accidentally dropped a spoon, and someone yelled, “Don’t burn that too!”  

Caius whispered, “You’re trending again.”  

She wanted to be angry, but the laughter wasn’t cruel—it was warm, human, shared.  

And maybe, she realized, that was the point.  

Later that afternoon, a delivery truck pulled up outside with boxes stacked to the roof.  

“I didn’t order anything,” Daphne said.  

Caius checked the label. “Sponsored supplies—from a baking company. Apparently they love your ‘authentic baking journey.’”  

She squinted. “You mean my public humiliation?”  

“Same thing online.”  

Inside the boxes were shiny new mixers, utensils, and—most importantly—fancy pre-mixed dessert kits with her name printed on the side: *The Merry Spoon Moment*.  

Finn’s eyes went wide. “You’re on a box! You’re famous-famous!”  

Mira, who had just walked in, froze mid-step. “Please tell me we’re getting paid for this.”  

Caius nodded. “Oh, we’re getting paid. They sent a check.”  

Daphne stared at the envelope he handed her. “This feels wrong.”  

“Wrong pays bills,” Mira said.  

Caius leaned closer. “You’re not selling out. You’re buying time.”  

“Is that your motto?”  

“Only on bad days.”  

She looked down at the boxes again. The idea of strangers baking her disaster dessert in their perfect kitchens felt absurd.  

But then she saw Finn’s grin, Mira’s rare almost-smile, and Caius’s eyes watching her carefully, waiting for her decision.  

“Fine,” she said. “But I’m making new recipes. Ones that don’t explode.”  

“Admirable,” Caius said. “I’ll miss the smoke, though.”  

She tossed a rag at him. “Clean something before I reconsider.”  

The following week was a blur of sugar, laughter, and low-level chaos.  

Every evening brought a new disaster: melted frosting, jam that refused to set, whipped cream that mysteriously vanished (Finn insisted it was evaporation).  

Through it all, the customers kept coming. The Merry Spoon had become something of a legend—a place where perfection was not just unnecessary, it was suspicious.  

Caius filmed snippets but posted fewer of them. Sometimes he just watched Daphne at work, flour on her cheeks, hair tied messily, eyes bright with exhaustion.  

“You’re thinking too much,” she told him one night, catching him staring.  

“Occupational hazard,” he said. “I overanalyze for content.”  

“Well, stop. You’re creeping me out.”  

He smiled. “If it helps, I only film you 80 percent of the time now.”  

“Progress,” she said dryly.  

One evening, Mira gathered everyone near the counter. “We have good news and bad news,” she announced.  

“Start with bad,” Daphne said.  

“The oven’s dying again.”  

“Then what’s the good?”  

“We made enough to buy a new one.”  

Finn threw his arms up. “We’re evolving!”  

Caius tapped his phone. “Careful, that line’s trending material.”  

They worked late that night, cleaning, fixing, joking. Somewhere between wiping down the counter and locking the door, Daphne caught herself laughing freely. Not the nervous kind she used to force, but real laughter—tired, loud, and full.  

When she turned around, Caius was watching her again.  

“What?” she asked.  

“Nothing. Just making sure I don’t forget this.”  

“Forget what?”  

“The sound.”  

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.  

Outside, rain began again—gentle, rhythmic, almost like applause.  

For the first time, the Merry Spoon didn’t smell like failure or grease.  

It smelled like sugar, effort, and the fragile sweetness of something that might last.