Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~8 min read
2:17 AM, and Bash couldn’t sleep.
This wasn’t unusual. Insomnia was his constant companion, had been for years. Usually he lay in bed running through menus, mentally taste-testing combinations, cataloging the contents of his walk-in. Tonight, though, his brain wouldn’t cooperate. It kept circling back to the wine bar. To Ivy’s face when he’d called her ideas too simple.
He’d seen that expression before. On young cooks in brutal kitchens, when head chefs tore them down. The flinch. The shuttering. The way confidence crumbled.
He’d become what he hated.
Bash gave up on sleep and went downstairs to work. The kitchen was his sanctuary, his therapy, his church. In here, everything made sense. Measurements were exact. Heat was controllable. Results were predictable.
Unlike people. Unlike small-town politics. Unlike red-haired bakers who made him feel things he didn’t want to feel.
He was prepping stock—mindless work, soothing—when he heard it.
Noise. From next door.
He checked his phone. 2:43 AM.
What was she doing in the bakery at 2:43 in the morning?
Bash told himself to ignore it. Not his business. Not his problem. She probably just had early prep like him.
But there was something about the sounds. Not the usual rhythmic work noises. Something irregular. Almost frantic.
He walked to the shared wall and listened.
Definitely movement. And was that—crying?
Bash closed his eyes. Counted to ten. Reminded himself that Ivy Sinclair was not his responsibility.
Made it to seven before he was heading for the back door.
The bakery’s lights were on, bright against the dark alley. Through the window, he could see her.
Ivy was at her work station, hands moving mechanically through dough. Her face was blotchy and wet. She was crying—not sobbing, but that quiet, exhausted crying that came from being too tired to hold it together anymore.
And she was making bread. Baguettes, from the looks of it.
Bash stood there, hand raised to knock, and watched her try to shape the dough. It wasn’t cooperating. Too slack, maybe. Or overworked. She formed a baguette, and it slumped. Tried again. Same result.
She made a sound of frustration and pressed her palms against the counter, shoulders shaking.
Bash knocked.
She jumped, whirling around. Even from outside, he could see her frantically wiping her face.
He knocked again.
After a long moment, she came to the door. Opened it a crack. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her nose pink. She’d been crying for a while.
“What do you want?” Her voice was rough.
“You’re crying over bread at 2 AM,” Bash said. “That’s not fine.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re demonstrably not fine.”
“Go away, Bash.”
He should. He absolutely should. Instead, he heard himself say, “Can I come in?”
She stared at him. “Why?”
Good question. He didn’t have a good answer. “Because I’m an insomniac, and I know what stress-baking at 2 AM looks like, and you clearly need help.”
“I don’t need YOUR help.”
“Your baguettes are overproofed. The gluten structure’s breaking down. You’ve been working that dough too long.”
Her face crumpled slightly. “I know. I can’t—I can’t get it right. I’ve made baguettes a thousand times, and tonight I just can’t—” Her voice broke.
Bash made a decision he’d probably regret. “Let me in.”
“Why would I—”
“Because I’m a professionally trained chef, and you’re having a technical crisis, and I’m offering to help. Free of charge. No strings. Just…” He ran a hand through his hair. “Let me help.”
Ivy studied him. Suspicious. Exhausted. Then she stepped back and opened the door wider.
The bakery smelled like yeast and tears. Ivy’s work station was covered in failed baguettes—misshapen lumps that barely resembled bread. Her eyes had that glassy, panicked quality he recognized from his own mirror on bad nights.
“What happened?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle.
“I can’t get them right.” She was staring at the dough like it had personally betrayed her. “I need them for the morning. Mrs. Fletcher special-ordered them for book club, and I promised, and they’re not working, and I’m going to fail, and everyone’s going to know I’m a fraud who can’t even make basic bread—”
“Hey.” Bash moved closer. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing!”
“You’re hyperventilating. That’s different.” He recognized this too. Panic attack. He’d had enough of them. “Sit down.”
“I don’t have time to—”
“Sit.”
She sat. Heavily. Dropped her head into her flour-covered hands.
Bash crouched in front of her. “When’s the last time you slept?”
“I don’t know. Yesterday? Maybe?”
“Ate?”
Silence.
“Ivy.”
“I had a croissant at lunch. Maybe. I think.”
He sighed. Of course. He’d seen this spiral before—too many times, in too many kitchens. Work until you break. Push until there’s nothing left. Prove you’re good enough by destroying yourself.
“Okay,” he said. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to make the baguettes. You’re going to sit there and drink water and breathe.”
“You can’t—”
“I can. I’ve made thousands of baguettes. Probably tens of thousands. I could make them in my sleep.” He stood, rolling up his sleeves. “Where’s your flour?”
“Bash—”
“Where?”
She pointed mutely to the storage area.
Bash washed his hands and assessed the situation. The dough was indeed overworked. Salvageable, though. He grabbed what he needed and started fresh, measuring by feel and experience.
“Talk to me,” he said as he worked. “What happened? Before the bread crisis.”
Silence. Then, quietly: “I can’t work with you.”
His hands stilled. “I know.”
“You think I’m not good enough.”
“That’s not—” He turned to look at her. She was staring at the floor. “Ivy, I don’t think that.”
“You called my ideas simple. Pedestrian.”
Bash winced. “I was an ass.”
“Yeah.”
“I…” He went back to kneading. Easier to talk when he wasn’t looking at her. “I have a problem. With control. With perfection. With thinking my way is the only way. It’s—it’s how I was trained. How I survived. But that doesn’t make it right.”
“Then why—”
“Because I’m scared,” he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “The festival is high-profile. Critics come. If we fail, it reflects on both of us. And I can’t—” His throat tightened. “I can’t afford to fail. Not again.”
“Again?”
He didn’t answer. Just focused on the dough, feeling it transform under his hands. Smooth. Elastic. Perfect.
“Your croissants are incredible,” he said finally. “Best I’ve had outside of Paris. Your technique is flawless. The lamination, the bake, the texture—all perfect. You’re not a fraud. You’re talented as hell.”
When he glanced over, she was staring at him with wide eyes.
“You really think that?” she whispered.
“I ate three of them,” Bash admitted. “Leo bought a half dozen. I told him it was for quality control. I ate three in one sitting.”
Despite everything, she smiled. Small, but real. “Quality control.”
“Very important.”
“You could’ve just said you liked them.”
“I’m not good at…” He gestured vaguely. “Words. People. Any of it.”
“I’ve noticed.”
They lapsed into silence. Bash shaped the first baguette. Perfect. He did another. And another. Muscle memory. Meditation.
“Why are you awake at 2 AM?” Ivy asked.
“Never sleep.”
“Never?”
“Four hours. Maybe. On good nights.”
“That’s not healthy.”
“Neither is working yourself into a panic attack over bread.”
She laughed. Watery, but genuine. “Fair point.”
He finished the last baguette and set them to proof. “These’ll be ready to bake in forty-five minutes. You should go to sleep.”
“I can’t leave you here alone.”
“Why not? Don’t trust me with your kitchen?”
“I…” She stood, walking over to where he was cleaning his hands. “Actually, yeah. I do trust you. Which is weird. Because I also kind of hate you.”
Bash surprised himself by smiling. “The feeling’s mutual.”
“So we hate each other but make good bread together?”
“Apparently.”
Ivy looked at the perfect baguettes, then at him. Her eyes were still red, but calmer. “Thank you. For this. You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah, I did.” He dried his hands. “I know what it’s like. The panic. The feeling of not being enough. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
“Even your enemies?”
“Even my enemies.”
She bit her lip. “What if we tried again? The dessert. But actually collaborative this time. Both of us listening.”
Bash considered. The smart thing would be to say no. To keep his distance. To not let this sunshine baker get any closer.
“Okay,” he said instead.
“Really?”
“Really. But I get to veto cupcakes.”
“And I get to veto anything that requires tweezers to eat.”
He almost laughed. “Deal.”
They stood there in the quiet bakery, covered in flour, exhausted, and something had shifted. Some wall had cracked.
“I should go,” Bash said, even though he didn’t want to. “You need sleep.”
“So do you.”
“Won’t happen. I’ll just go back to my kitchen and prep.”
“You could stay,” Ivy said, then looked surprised at herself. “I mean—if you want. Help me bake these. I make good coffee.”
Bash knew he should leave. Knew this was dangerous territory.
“I’d like that,” he said.
So they stayed. Made bread at 4 AM while the rest of Willowbrook slept. And for the first time in a long time, Bash didn’t feel quite so alone.
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