Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~7 min read
Sebastian Moreau woke to the sound of hell itself.
Pop music. Aggressively cheerful pop music. At a volume that suggested someone was either deeply inconsiderate or actively trying to summon demons.
At 4:30 in the morning.
He lay in the darkness of his bedroom—the small apartment above Moreau’s that smelled perpetually of thyme and browned butter—and stared at the ceiling with the kind of fury that could reduce sous chefs to tears.
The bass was vibrating through the walls. Through his walls. Into his skull.
He’d gotten maybe three hours of sleep. Maybe. The dinner service had run late because Mrs. Fletcher wanted her duck cooked to an extremely specific temperature that required four attempts, and then there was inventory, and then his mind wouldn’t shut off because it never shut off, running through tomorrow’s menu and next week’s ordering and whether the new plating for the halibut was pretentious or just right.
And now this.
This… auditory assault.
Bash threw off the covers and sat up, running both hands through his hair until it stood in every direction. The music showed no signs of stopping. If anything, it was getting louder. A woman’s voice—the singer, not a real person, please God not a real person singing along—hit notes that should be illegal before sunrise.
He grabbed his phone. 4:47 AM.
The bakery. It had to be the bakery.
He’d known someone bought the space next door—had been relieved, actually, that the for-lease sign finally came down. Empty buildings attracted rats and health inspectors, neither of which he needed anywhere near Moreau’s. He’d assumed it would be something reasonable. A boutique. An accounting firm. Literally anything that operated during normal human hours.
Not a bakery. Not a bakery that apparently started prep in the middle of the night with a soundtrack borrowed from a teenage girl’s summer playlist.
The music switched songs. Somehow worse. More upbeat. Aggressively, violently peppy.
Bash stood, pulled on yesterday’s chef’s whites—they were crumpled but clean enough—and headed downstairs. His restaurant was dark and quiet, exactly how he liked it. Stainless steel gleaming in the security lights. Everything in its place. Ordered. Controlled. Perfect.
Unlike the chaos bleeding through the shared wall.
He could smell it now. Sugar. Butter. That cloying sweetness that had no place anywhere near his savory menu. His dinner guests were going to walk in tonight expecting duck confit and get hit with the scent of… what was that? Croissants? Cookies? Diabetes?
Unacceptable.
Bash walked to the wall and pounded on it with his fist. Three sharp hits.
The music didn’t stop.
He hit it again. Harder.
Nothing.
“TURN. IT. DOWN!” he shouted at the wall, not caring if he sounded unhinged. He was unhinged. Sleep deprivation and auditory torture would do that.
The music cut off abruptly.
Silence. Blessed, beautiful silence.
A muffled voice from the other side: “I’m sorry! I didn’t realize—I’ll keep it down!”
A woman. Young, from the sound of it. Nervous.
Good. She should be nervous.
Bash stood there for a moment, breathing hard, waiting to see if the music would start again. It didn’t. Just silence and the distant hum of refrigeration units and his own heartbeat gradually slowing.
He should go back to bed. Try to salvage another hour of sleep before he had to start his own prep.
But he was awake now. Fully, furiously awake. And there was no point trying to force sleep that wouldn’t come.
Bash turned on the lights in his kitchen and started working.
By 6:30 AM, he’d prepped three sauces, broken down a duck, and started the stock that would simmer all day. His hands moved with the precision of fifteen years of practice. Knife work was meditation. Cooking was control. In here, everything made sense.
Unlike his new neighbor.
Who apparently couldn’t read a clock or respect noise ordinances or—
The smell hit him again. Stronger now. Definitely croissants. And something else. Cinnamon rolls? Pain au chocolat?
His stomach growled.
Traitor.
Bash wiped his hands on his apron and walked to the small window that looked out onto the alley between their buildings. The bakery had its lights on, warm and golden. He could see movement inside. A figure in a colorful apron—was that cupcakes on it?—moving around the kitchen with the kind of energy that should be illegal this early.
The figure turned, and Bash got his first look at his new neighbor.
Young. Maybe late twenties. Red hair escaping from a bun in every direction. Flour on her face. Smiling—actually smiling—at a tray of pastries like they’d just told her a joke.
She was talking to them.
She was talking to the croissants.
Bash closed his eyes. Deep breath. Patience.
He did not have patience.
He headed for the back door.
The alley was cold, the early morning air biting through his chef’s whites. Bash crossed the space between their buildings in four strides and knocked on the bakery’s back door. Firmly. Not quite a pound, but close.
The door opened almost immediately, and suddenly he was face-to-face with sunshine personified.
She was shorter than he expected. Maybe five-four. The red hair was even more chaotic up close, curls springing free like they were trying to escape. Her eyes were absurdly green, bright with excitement and nerves. And she was covered—absolutely covered—in flour. On her cheek. On her forearms. Dusted across that ridiculous cupcake apron.
“Hi!” She was still smiling. How was she still smiling? “You must be my neighbor! I’m Ivy. Ivy Sinclair. I’m so sorry about the music, I completely forgot that sound travels and—oh my gosh, you’re up early too! Are you a baker? No, wait—you’re from the restaurant, right? Moreau’s? I’ve heard amazing things. Here, do you want a croissant?”
She shoved a pastry at him. Still warm. Golden and perfect and smelling like butter and heaven.
Bash stared at it. At her. At the croissant.
“Your music was too loud,” he said flatly.
Her smile flickered. “I know. I’m really sorry. I’ll keep it down, I promise. I just get excited when I bake and music helps me focus and—”
“Your ventilation system is blowing sugar into my kitchen.”
“Oh.” The smile faded more. “I… I didn’t know. I can adjust the—”
“And you’re parked in my spot.”
That wasn’t technically true. There were two spots in the alley. They’d clearly been meant to be shared. But he’d been parking in the left spot for three years, and now there was a cheerful yellow Volkswagen Bug—because of course it was—taking up his space.
“Your spot?” She blinked. “I thought… the real estate agent said there were two spots for—”
“Fix it,” Bash interrupted. He didn’t have time for this. Didn’t have energy for this. “The music. The ventilation. The parking. Fix all of it.”
He turned to leave.
“Wait—don’t you want the croissant?”
He glanced back. She was still holding it out, hope and uncertainty warring on her face. The pastry did look perfect. Golden. Flaky. The kind of lamination that took skill and patience.
“No,” he said, and walked away.
Behind him, silence. Then, very quietly: “Well. That was rude.”
Bash made it back to his kitchen and firmly did not think about the hurt in her voice. Did not think about the perfect croissant. Did not think about how she’d looked so excited to meet him and he’d been nothing but harsh.
He had a restaurant to run. A Michelin star to chase. A menu to perfect.
He didn’t have time for cheerful bakers with terrible taste in music.
Even if they did make his stomach growl with envy.
Even if they had freckles scattered across their nose like cinnamon.
Even if—
No.
Bash turned back to his prep station and grabbed his knife. Work. That was all that mattered.
The rest was just noise.
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