serene

Marjorie’s Bakehouse opened at seven. Always had. Even before it was hers.

Margot unlocked the side door with the same key she’d used since she was eleven — a brass one, worn soft at the edges, ribboned to a piece of faded blue grosgrain. She let herself in without turning on the lights. The early streaks of sunlight were enough. Monaco mornings were reliable like that, and Margot liked the quiet before the streets came to life. 

The café smelled like cinnamon and dust. Not bad dust. The kind that settled overnight and never felt dirty — just familiar. She set her bag down on the back counter, slid her phone into the little nook carved into the cabinet (her grandmother had once hidden a cigarette tin there, full of francs and peppermint chews), and pulled her apron from the hook. Tied it twice. Always twice.

There were rituals.

Wipe the bar. Polish the steam wand. Cups, handles right, aligned to the edge. A cloth for her hands and a cloth for everything else.

She checked the display fridge though she already knew what was in it. Three tarts left from yesterday, a row of bottled citron presse, the clinking loneliness of too much space. She noted it. Tomorrow, she’d bake more. Just two. Two sold best.

At 6:49, she started up the espresso machine. It hummed to life like it always did — steady, reliable, expensive as hell — and she wiped it down once.

Then again.

And then, again.

Not because it was dirty. Not even because it needed it.

Because she hadn’t not done that in six years.

The world settled after that.

She refilled the sugar jars. They were still full, barely touched yesterday, but she did it anyway. The scoop nestled into glass like a soft exhale, and she let her mind go quiet while her hands worked.

Outside, the street was starting to stir. A Vespa zipped past. The old man who walked his spaniel at the same time every morning paused outside Marjorie’s, like he always did. He didn’t drink coffee, not anymore. But he liked to check that she was still here. Still hers. Still open.

She offered him a little wave through the window. He lifted his cap.

There was peace in this. Structure.

But also… that feeling. The one she never spoke aloud, not even to herself. Like the days kept turning but she wasn’t quite in them. Like she was waiting for something but didn’t know what it was. Or where it would come from.

Sometimes she wondered if her grandmother ever felt that too.

At 6:59, she unlocked the front doors.

At 7:00, exactly, she flipped the sign.

And Marjorie’s was open for business.

—

It was after the morning rush but before the tourists rolled in, the sweet spot of the day. The clink of cups had settled into a rhythm. The door opened less often. The music had shifted from jazz to something soft and French and barely there.

Margot stood behind the bar, wiping down the counter she’d already wiped twice since nine. She wasn’t thinking about it. It just happened. Like breathing.

She glanced at the clock, then at the door.

Right on time.

It swung open with a chime, and Charles Leclerc stepped inside, sunglasses perched too high on his nose, a black hoodie pulled over hair that probably cost more to style than her rent. Alex followed, her linen jumpsuit cinched just-so, gold hoops, no makeup but still glowing. Both looked like they’d stepped out of a Vogue spread. 

“Bonjour,” Margot greeted, already turning toward the machine. “Flat white?”

“For both,” Alex answered, leaning over the counter. “You read my mind.”

“You come at the same time every Wednesday that you are in town. It’s really not that impressive.”

Charles grinned faintly. He never said much in here. Not rudely — just quiet. He’d nod, take his drink, sit in the window. Sometimes he scrolled his phone. Sometimes he just stared out at the street. Margot never asked what he thought about. She figured he liked that he could be anonymous here. People recognized him, of course. But nobody made a fuss. Marjorie’s wasn’t the place for that.

Alex, though — Alex talked.

“You’ll love this new lip stain that I found,” she said now, digging her phone from her bag. “It’s the exact red that doesn’t make you look like you’re trying too hard to pull off an actual red lip, you know?”

Margot did know. She wasn’t wearing lipstick today, but she had an impressive vintage vanity in her apartment with an entire compartment dedicated to her lipstick collection. 

“What brand?” she asked, tipping milk into the steaming jug.

Alex turned her screen. “Rhode. Look. This one. You’d wear this.”

It was a muted terracotta red. Not too blue, not too orange. A Margot color, but warmer than she usually reached for.

“I might try it,” Margot said, quietly, which in her language meant I like it a lot.

Charles chuckled under his breath. “My Alex has converted another one.”

“She has good taste,” Margot said simply, and handed him his flat white. He took it with a nod, slipped toward the window seat.

Alex lingered.

“You doing anything for the gala this weekend?” She asked, chin propped on one palm, voice conspiratorial.

“No,” Margot answered, because she wasn’t. She never did. That wasn’t the kind of crowd that Marjorie’s catered, therefore Margot had no business being there either. 

“You should come. I’m serious. You’d look amazing in something vintage. I know a girl — she could loan you something perfect.”

Margot smiled, soft and small. “I just don’t think that galas are my thing.”

Alex opened her mouth to argue, but then just sipped her coffee instead. “Okay,” she said finally. “But if you change your mind…”

Margot didn’t say she wouldn’t. She didn’t say she would either.

The couple left twenty minutes later, the way they always did — Alex with a paper bag of financiers she swore were the only things she could bare to eat after cardio barre, Charles with a half-finished coffee and a little nod as he passed the counter.

And just like that, the café was still again.

Margot glanced at the sugar jars. Still full.

Still.

She refilled them anyway.

—

The front lights were off. The chairs were stacked. The espresso machine had already been cleaned — once properly, twice out of habit. The door was locked, the sign turned. Closed.

Margot was in the back, perched on a stool with a clipboard balanced on her knee and her pen half-dried from being uncapped too long. Inventory was the only part of the job she didn’t mind doing twice. Numbers made sense. Items matched lists. There was no guesswork.

Cinnamon, low.

Vanilla syrup, full.

Oat milk, not enough. 

She’d have to call Julien in the morning.

She scratched notes, glanced at the shelf again, then froze when she heard it: a knock.

Then another. Quick, insistent.

She blinked. Looked at the clock on the wall. 8:41.

Another knock. This one louder.

Margot set the clipboard down, tucked the pen behind her ear, and wiped her hands on her apron out of habit. She didn’t like being interrupted when she was in this mode. Alone, sorting, focused. She didn’t like knocks on the glass when the lights were clearly off. When the sign — the sign — said closed.

Still, she walked to the front.

Unhooked the door to the café floor.

Stepped out into the dim.

Another knock — and then the chime of her own voice in her head, already annoyed: People are so—

But she stopped.

And stared.

Outside, in the rain that had crept in while she’d been counting brown sugar packets, stood Lando Norris.

Not smiling. Not posing. Not the version she’d seen online or in those massive race-weekend ads along the port.

Just a guy.

Drenched.

Hair flat to his forehead, jacket clinging to him, a phone in one hand and a miserable expression on his face. And behind him — parked half on the curb, half off — was a bright blue Fiat Jolly, one of those absurd little things people with too much charm and not enough practicality seemed to love around here.

The engine was steaming. Not subtly. Like a teapot left on the stove for too long.

She didn’t unlock the door right away.

He gestured toward the café, mouthing something. She raised her eyebrows. He tried again. Then gave up and just… stood there. Looking wet and quite pathetic.

With a sigh, Margot turned the bolt and cracked the door.

“We’re closed.”

“I know.” He blinked rain out of his lashes. “Sorry. I wouldn’t— I just— my car kind of exploded and I—”

She looked past him. Smoke puffed again from under the hood.

She looked back.

“I don’t know anything about cars, so you’ll probably need to call a mechanic.” She sighed. “But I can make coffee.” 

He exhaled, his eyes lighting up. “Really? Thank you. Thank you so much — I’m freezing my balls— I mean—“

She almost smiled. Almost. But instead, she huffed, opened the door a little wider, and stepped back.

“You have to stand on the mat. You’re dripping.”

He stepped in without hesitation, brushing his shoes off before crossing the threshold like it mattered. Which, in here — it did.

Margot locked the door behind him. Adjusted the sign, just in case.

Then flicked the light on behind the coffee bar and moved like she hadn’t just let someone uniquely famous into her tiny, quiet, sacred space.

“Sit there,” she said, pointing to the stool closest to the heater. “I’ll make you something warm to drink.”

He sat. No questions. No sass. Just wet and tired and quiet as he stared down at his phone and his eyebrows drew together miserably.

Margot reached across the counter and turned on the espresso machine.

—

The café hummed low with the sound of steam and the pitter of rain against the windows. Margot moved with clean lines, practiced hands, a rhythm no one saw but her.

Lando stayed where she told him to sit, elbows on his knees, watching her with something half-curious. 

She slid a cup across the table.

It was wide, heavy, with one of the good saucers — the kind she didn’t usually pull out after hours. But she hadn’t thought about it until just now, and now it was too late to change it. 

He didn’t move.

She frowned. “Try it, then.”

He blinked up at her like she’d pulled him from some far-off thought. His thumb was still hovering over his phone screen. “Oh. What is it?”

“An oat milk latte with honey and orange bitters.”

He made a face. “That sounds like something a teenage girl would order from Starbucks.”

She stared at him. And then she turned and walked away.

Back through the swinging door, into the stockroom, where the air was dry and shelves were labeled and she could pretend the last ten minutes hadn’t happened.

She should’ve just stayed in the back. She should’ve ignored the knock.

Of course it was him. Of course he said something like that. Of course she was the idiot who gave him shelter, a stool, her good cup.

She was halfway through a passive-aggressive restack of the lid shelf when she heard it — the door creaking, the footsteps.

She turned fast, eyes narrowing. “You can’t be in here. You’re dirty.”

He paused in the doorway, soaked t-shirt clinging to his shoulders, sheepish expression doing nothing for her patience.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, lifting his hands like that made him harmless. “For the—what I said. I wasn’t trying to be an ass. I’ve just had a really, really shit night, and that car—”

“You love it. Yeah. Got it.” She turned back to the shelf. Slammed a lid container a little harder than she meant to. “I love that coffee I gave you,” she snapped. “You don’t see me insulting that.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what you meant.”

Silence. Except for the drip-drip of his hair.

“It’s good,” he said, quietly. “The coffee. It’s really good. I’ve never had anything like it.”

She didn’t turn around.

“I just—sometimes I don’t think before I say stuff. And people usually… laugh. Or don’t care. Or whatever. But I can tell you do, so I’m sorry.”

She still didn’t turn, but her shoulders stopped tightening.

He stepped in. Not too close. Just enough to fill the space with his presence — half-tall and wet and awkward.

“I was being a miserable git. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” she muttered. “You should be.”

That startled a laugh out of him.

Soft. A little tired. Not smug.

Just real.

“I’ll go,” he said, finally. “Didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

She turned then. Just enough to see him leaning in the doorframe, damp and apologetic.

She crossed her arms. “You didn’t finish the coffee.”

He blinked. “I thought you wanted me to—”

She cut him off with a small shrug. “It’s good coffee. You don’t waste good things just because you’re in a bad mood.”

He smiled.

Not a full smile — not the big-crowd grin. Just a slow tug at the corner of his mouth, like he’d just been told off by someone who meant it.

He stepped backward out of the stockroom. “I’ll drink it before I leave.”

“Stand on the mat.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And then he was gone again, and Margot let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

She adjusted the lids. Wiped her hands. Counted them. Twice.

And when she came out five minutes later, his cup was empty, placed neatly in the center of the saucer.

Handle turned to the right.

Exactly how she’d served it to him.

—

—

Margot didn’t do screens in bed. That was a hard boundary. No phones, no tablets, no blue light stealing precious sleep hormones. Her grandmother had sworn it rotted the mind — “Rest is for letting the day settle, darling, not for poking at other people’s nonsense.”

But the armchair by the window didn’t count.

The blanket over her legs was thick and a little scratchy. Her tea had gone cold two sips ago. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the nighttime air, warm and salt-slicked from the coast. The phone sat in her lap, screen glowing faintly against her fingertips, open to the bakery’s Instagram.

She never posted selfies. Never showed her face. She didn’t do reels or “get ready with me” voiceovers or flash sale countdowns.

Marjorie’s wasn’t that kind of page.

It was latte art in her best antique cups. Floral menus on handwritten cardstock. Crumbs on marble. Cake under soft morning light. A photo of the fig tart from that morning — sliced, missing a piece.

She was halfway through writing the caption when she saw the notifications pinned to the top of the screen.

@charles_leclerc liked your post.

@landonorris liked your post.

@alexandrasaintmleux tagged you in their story.

She blinked.

The first didn’t surprise her. Charles always liked her posts. Alex always posted on her story. They were regulars. Plus, Alex had a particular talent for styling her flat whites beside her sunglasses and pastry plate like it was an editorial spread.

But Lando?

Her eyes lingered on his name. She exhaled slowly, jaw tight. Bit the inside of her cheek.

Maybe he’d liked it while sitting in the shop last night. Waiting for whoever had come to pick him up. Killing time. Scrolling without thought.

He hadn’t said goodbye before he left. Not that he should have.

Not that she cared.

Still. She tapped on the post. The fig tart.

The comments on the post weren’t wild. Nothing out of the ordinary. But they were picking up — steadily, quietly. Like the murmur of a room just starting to fill.

The girls who worked in the boutiques along Rue Caroline, typing in all caps about the cinnamon rolls.

The older women who came in on Thursdays for tea and lemon slices, tagging their daughters.

A couple of yacht crew, arguing about what was the best sandwich on the menu.

It wasn’t fame. It was just buzz. Familiar names in unfamiliar places. Little hearts blinking from people who didn’t normally look twice.

She let the smile come, quiet and unbothered.

Then she reached for her lip balm — the one Alex had insisted she try, the one with the faint citrus scent — and uncapped it absentmindedly as she read through one last comment. 

Someone said the honey oat latte changed their life. It was me. I said that.

Margot snorted into the quiet.

She leaned forward, thumb poised over the screen, and edited the caption of a new post. A photo of the front window display. 

Tarte à la figue. Just one left. First come, first serve. See you tomorrow morning x

She posted it.

Set the phone face down on the table beside her.

Didn’t look again.

And when she turned out the light and crawled into bed — sheets crisp, lavender spray still clinging to the air — she lay still for longer than usual.

Her thoughts didn’t spiral. Didn’t loop.

They just… lingered.

—

The bell above the door gave its usual high-pitched jingle, a little too cheery for the hour. Margot didn’t look up. She was elbow-deep in a pastry box tower that refused to fold right, the flaky scent of butter and sugar curling in the warm morning air.

“Tell me you have an almond croissant,” Alex’s voice floated over, smooth and thick with sleep, like satin tangled in silk sheets.

Margot smirked, eyes still on the stubborn box. “Good morning to you, too.”

Alex dropped her oversized sunglasses onto the nearest table with a soft clatter, yawned in technicolor—a slow stretch of jaw and breath that filled the small space between them—and made her way behind the counter as if she owned the place. Margot tolerated exactly two people crossing that line. Alex was one of them.

She hoisted herself up onto the worn counter beside the till, one heel off, legs tucked under her like a cat settling in for a long afternoon nap. The faint scent of her floral perfume mixed with the rich aroma of fresh coffee and pastry, creating a quiet cocoon.

“Charles is in Maranello,” she announced, pulling an almond croissant off the tray with the tongs like it was her divine right, biting into it with deliberate satisfaction. “Sim training, video stuff, some sponsor dinner. I think.”

Margot finally looked up, arching an eyebrow. “You’re a very supportive girlfriend.”

Alex’s mouth was full, but she managed a cheeky grin. “I’m supportive of me needing a big cup of coffee.”

“Your usual?” Margot asked, turning toward the espresso machine, hands sliding into their familiar dance — grind, tamp, steam, pour. The hiss of milk frothing was oddly soothing, a static hum beneath their easy conversation.

“You know it,” Alex said, stretching lazily against the counter, eyes half-closed. “I needed to get away from my own thoughts this morning.”

Margot slid the finished cup across the counter. The warmth of the porcelain radiated through the quiet, and Alex caught it with both hands, groaning softly in appreciation. “God, I love you.”

“Flatterer,” Margot teased, a soft smile tugging at her lips. 

—

The afternoon rush had long thinned, and the last of the lemon tarts sat under the glass dome like forgotten treasure. Margot had just turned the chairs up on the tables, the soft clatter echoing off the tiled walls, when the bell over the door jingled again.

She paused, brow furrowing. The Closed sign was already up.

He stepped inside like he was halfway to leaving already — tall-ish, hoodie unzipped, hands tucked in his pockets like he was prepared for this to go badly. His face was calm in the way that made you look twice: just handsome at first, then suddenly familiar.

She knew that face.

Oscar Piastri.

She’d seen it on screens. Posters. On Instagram.

And now he was in Marjorie’s, standing in the scent of cinnamon and lemony mop bucket steam, with the late sun slanting over his shoulder.

“I know you’re closed,” he said quickly. “Sorry. I’m not here for coffee or food.”

Margot straightened, letting the cloth drop to the counter. She didn’t say anything yet — just waited.

Oscar shifted. “I just came to check if anything was… messed up. Last night. Lando told me what happened. Sort of. And I offered to come by in case he—left something. Or, you know, broke anything. Or offended you. He does that sometimes. By accident, you know? He doesn’t mean to.”

Margot blinked, then leaned her hip into the counter. “You’re here… doing damage control?”

Oscar gave her a dry, self-deprecating smile. “Basically. Yes.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but not unkindly. “You’re Lando’s… teammate?”

He nodded. Cringed visibly . “Right. This is probably weird, isn’t it?” 

“I mean,” she made a face, “a bit, yeah.”

Oscar looked faintly uncomfortable. “Right. That’s fair.” He glanced around — the pastry case already cleaned, chairs up on tables, soft jazz playing low over the speakers. It wasn’t exactly neutral territory. “I didn’t bring flowers,” he said finally. “Thought that might be too much.”

Margot raised an eyebrow. “You considered flowers?”

A faint flush touched his ears. “It came up.”

She squinted. “Right.”

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck. “Anyway. Just wanted to say thanks. For not turning him away. He can be…” He trailed off. Then gave a half-smile. “A lot, sometimes.”

Margot exhaled, slow. “Well. I’ve weathered worse.”

“I believe that,” he said, sincere. He shifted again. “He didn’t leave anything behind, did he?” 

She shook her head. “Nope.”

Oscar nodded and turned to open the door, but paused. “He liked the coffee, by the way. He hasn’t stopped talking about it.”

Margot smiled, soft and brief. “He has terrible manners.”

Oscar chuckled, already stepping out. “Yeah. He’s working on it.”

And then he was gone — leaving only the fading jingle of the doorbell, and Margot staring at the closed door.

—

Marjorie’s was dark, the chairs still up on tables, the light through the front windows soft and forgiving. Margot’s trainers squeaked faintly against the tile as she crossed to the door, double-checked the lock even though she knew she’d turned it, then turned away again.

Closed Mondays. Always had been.

Her grandmother used to call them “reclamation days.”

“You can’t pour from an empty pot, darling. Even porcelain cracks if it’s left full for too long.”

Margot tied her hair back with the soft green scrunchie Alex had given her, then pressed play on the voicemail Alex had sent an hour ago. 

“Bring your long mat. We’re doing core work today and I’m not suffering alone.”

—

Rue du Portier Pilates Studio

Alex was already barefoot and stretching when Margot arrived, her tank top barely hanging onto one shoulder. The room smelled like citrus cleaner and eucalyptus oil, sunlight spilling in through the big paneled windows.

“You’re late,” Alex said cheerfully, not looking up from her hamstring stretch. “Which means you get the reformer next to Madame Death Core.”

Margot groaned, slipping off her shoes. “I hate her. She never even breaks a sweat.”

“She doesn’t blink,” Alex muttered. “She has got to be a robot. A cyborg carved out of Lululemon and Alo.”

Still, the class was good — breath and burn, the kind that distracted Margot just enough from her own thoughts. She didn’t think about Lando. Or Oscar. Just breathed in, curled up, pressed her heels down.

After class, Alex handed her a bottle of water and a protein bar. “Don’t pretend you’re not the kind of person who forgets to eat when you’re not working,” she said. “You got therapy later?”

Margot sighed. “Yeah.”

Alex pulled her into a one-armed hug, warm and brief. “You’re doing amazing.”

Margot didn’t say anything. But her throat tightened just a little.

—

Margot sat on the couch in the small room with its dusty pink walls and woven throw pillows. She liked this space. It wasn’t warm, exactly, but it was contained. Symmetrical. Safe.

Her therapist, Camille, sat across from her with that patient stillness Margot sometimes found both comforting and unbearable.

“Do you want to start today,” Camille asked, “or shall I?”

Margot took a moment. Picked at a loose thread on the hem of her sleeve. “I’ve had a weird week.”

Camille nodded. Waited.

“Someone broke down outside the shop. In the rain. I let him in.” A beat.

Camille tilted her head. “And how did that feel?”

Margot stared at her hands. “I don’t know. Weird. It put me off schedule. Made me uncomfortable but… didn’t, at the same time.”  She hesitated. “And now I don’t know if I’m… just thinking too much about it.” 

Camille made a small note. “What part of your interaction made you felt weird?”

Margot exhaled slowly, trying to pick through the threads. “He was rained on. He was dirty. He left the coffee cup exactly how I handed it to him.” 

“Is that a good thing?” 

“I don’t know.” 

—

After the hour was done, Margot didn’t go straight home.

She walked the harbor instead, shoes quiet on the stones, the wind teasing strands of hair from her bun. The yachts bobbed like white ghosts in the late light. Someone laughed nearby — rich, unbothered.

She clutched her phone in her hand and let herself breathe.

Because sometimes, rest wasn’t about understanding.

Sometimes, it was just about letting the day settle.

Like Grandma Marjorie used to say.

—

Marjorie’s was back in rhythm twelve hours later.

It was the kind of morning Margot liked best — cool sun through the windows, music low and old-fashioned, the smell of fresh bread still clinging to the walls. She moved on autopilot, fingers deft and quick: almond croissants arranged in a crescent, cherry clafoutis set to cool behind the case.

Then the bell above the door gave a too-familiar jingle.

She didn’t look up right away — pulled the espresso shot, steamed the milk, breathed in cinnamon and control. But then she heard it. Him. 

“Margot!”

Charles. Always cheerful. Always smooth. Always kind.

And behind him— “This is the girl that Lando and Oscar will not shut up about?”

Margot looked up. Paused.

Max Verstappen was leaning one elbow on the counter, sunglasses still on. He was squinting at the pastry display. 

Charles looked pained. “Mon dieu, Max, shut up.”

Max just smirked.

Margot, to her credit, didn’t flinch. She calmly placed two plates on the counter, each with a slice of quiche, and slid them forward.

“Charles, hi,” she said. “And… friend.”

Max pushed up his sunglasses. “Max. Sorry. I’m not usually rude.”

“Don’t lie,” Charles muttered.

“I mean I’m not usually rude in front of the people who are in charge of my food.” Max looked back at her. “So you’re the Margot.” He smiled. 

She blinked. “I didn’t realize there were so many others.”

That made Charles huff a laugh, and Max grin. 

“Lando said you made him a fancy coffee and then kicked him out.”

Margot didn’t even blink. “I let him in, actually. He kicked himself out.”

Max looked delighted. “That’s great. Did Oscar really come here the next day and start grovelling for him?” 

Charles groaned. “Please stop talking.”

Margot just folded a napkin and set it beside the plates. “You’re both sitting outside.”

“But it’s windy,” Max protested.

She smiled — the kind that didn’t budge. “That wasn’t a question. You smell like a sweaty gym.”

Charles looked like he was holding back a laugh as he grabbed the plates. “Merci, Margot.”

She gave him a nod, then turned her back on both of them, sliding another tray into the oven with a little more force than necessary.

As the bell jingled again behind them, she exhaled. Long. Slow.

She didn’t want to think about what it meant that Lando and Oscar were talking about her — enough for Max Verstappen to have noticed.

She didn’t want to know what they said. Whether it was flattering or funny. Whether it was a passing mention or something stickier, something that lived in the back of their minds the way they were starting to live in the back of hers.

Margot turned back to the counter, wiped at a perfectly clean surface. The cloth moved in smooth, practiced motions — circles, not swipes. Right hand, then left. Repeat. Order in chaos. Familiar ground.

She didn’t want to think about the fact that her name — quiet, ordinary, not meant to echo — was being passed around in rooms she would never walk into. In conversations between people whose lives had nothing to do with hers.

She didn’t want to think about the fact that Oscar had come by. That Lando had told him. That someone, somewhere, had bothered to mention the baker who ran a sleepy little café with flaky pastry and too many rules about where dirty shoes could and couldn’t go.

She didn’t want to think about any of it.

So she folded the cloth, lined it up with the edge of the sink. Took a breath. Held it.

Then she turned back to the espresso machine, and let herself be busy again.

—

It happened just after midnight.

Margot had stayed late, not because she needed to — inventory was already done, the espresso machine already cleaned — but because the shop was the only place that made sense when her mind wouldn’t slow down. The playlist was low, jazz humming through the speakers. The air smelled like sugar and lemon zest.

She was sitting on the floor behind the counter, back against the cupboards, checking invoices on her tablet — when the glass shattered.

A single, sharp sound — crack — followed by a scatter of tiny splinters and the solid thud of something hitting the far wall.

Margot froze.

Heart in her throat, eyes wide, lungs too slow to remember how to breathe.

Another crash — smaller this time. A smear of paint across the lower half of the window. Black. Ugly. Letters scrawled too quickly to read.

She didn’t move. Didn’t think. Just felt — that sharp, paralyzing flood of panic that came when her mind was no longer following the rules she’d made for it.

And then, somehow, she was moving. Legs stiff, breath shallow, voice robotic as she called the police. Gave her name. The address. Told them no, she wasn’t hurt, but someone had thrown something through her storefront window.

They said someone would be there soon.

She said thank you. Then hung up.

And that’s when her hands started to shake.

⸻

She didn’t want to call Alex. She almost didn’t.

But the silence was worse. The shattered glass staring at her like a dare. The paint running like blood down the clean, beloved window.

So she pressed the button. One ring. Two.

Alex answered on the third, voice sleep-slurred and worried. “Margot?”

“I’m sorry,” Margot whispered. “I just— I didn’t know who else—”

“Whoa, hey,” Alex said immediately, awake now. “What’s going on?”

Margot swallowed. “Someone threw something through the window. At the shop. I— I don’t know why.”

“Jesus Christ. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“No. Just nervous. I—” Her voice cracked. She hated that it cracked.

“Okay,” Alex said gently. “Breathe. You called the police?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Okay. I’m not in Monaco — I’m in Barcelona with Charles. I would come straight there, but—”

Margot closed her eyes. “I didn’t mean to bother you, I just— I’m fine, Alex, I swear—”

“Stop.” Alex’s voice was firm now. “You are not going to apologise for not wanting to be alone right now.” 

Margot bit her lip.

“I’ll text Lando and Oscar,” Alex said. “Charles says they’re staying only five minutes away.”

Margot felt her eyes get big. “No, Alex, really, you don’t have to—”

“I’m not asking,” she said, with the same tone she used when demanding extra whipped cream on her mocha. “They’ll just come and check on you. And you’ll let them, okay?”

Margot didn’t answer.

Alex softened. “Mar, it’s okay to be freaked out about this.”

The lump in Margot’s throat made it impossible to speak. She just nodded, even though Alex couldn’t see it.

And then she sat on the floor, staring at the spray-painted window.

And waited.

—

The police hadn’t arrived yet.

The paint on the glass had dried in uneven drips. The rock that had shattered the window — round, heavy, maybe pulled from a garden — sat where it had landed, beside the fridge. Margot hadn’t moved it.

She sat on the bench behind the counter, elbows on her knees, hands clasped. Trying not to let her eyes dart back to the window every few seconds. Trying not to flinch every time a car passed outside.

The bell jingled.

And for the first time in her life, the sound made her flinch.

“Sorry,” someone said quickly — low, urgent. “Sorry, it’s just us.”

Margot looked up.

Lando came in first. Hoodie, damp curls, jaw tense. Oscar behind him, equally casual, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, eyes sweeping the shop like he didn’t quite know where to land.

“Oh,” Margot said. It was the only thing her mouth remembered how to do.

Lando gave her a nervous smile — or tried to. “Hey. You okay?”

She nodded. Or at least moved her head.

Oscar stepped further in, slower. “The door was unlocked. We figured…”

“Alex told me,” she said. “I mean— she said you were coming.”

Lando’s eyes flicked to the window, then the paint, then the rock. He winced. “Jesus.”

Oscar said nothing. His jaw clenched once, then released.

“Police haven’t come yet,” she said. “I didn’t want to touch anything.”

“Smart,” Oscar said quietly.

The three of them stood in silence, the kind that buzzed just under the skin. Margot could feel her heartbeat in her teeth. Lando kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Oscar didn’t move at all.

“You didn’t have to come,” she said, even though she didn’t really want them to leave. “It’s fine now. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Lando said, too quickly. Then winced. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

“No,” she said, voice hollow. “It’s okay. You’re right.”

Oscar finally stepped closer, glanced behind the counter. “Do you want us to sit with you?”

The way he asked — soft, no pressure, like he was offering a blanket and not a presence — made something in her chest go warm and sore at the same time.

“I guess,” she said.

And that was how it happened.

The three of them — strangers, almost — sitting behind the counter on the floor, backs against cupboards and knees nearly touching, surrounded by the fading scent of sugar and smoke and cold adrenaline.

Lando kept talking, quietly. Dumb stuff. The weather. A story about his apartment’s broken heater. He didn’t seem to care that she barely responded.

Oscar didn’t say much at all. Just sat beside her, steady and quiet, like a fixed point in the storm.

—

Margot stood in the middle of the café. 

She didn’t know where to put her hands.

The floor was still dusted with glass, despite Lando’s efforts to sweep. The scent of spray paint lingered sharp and chemical beneath the usual vanilla and espresso. The front window was a gaping wound now, covered in plywood Oscar had somehow found in the alley next to the shops — uneven, roughly nailed in, too temporary. Wrong.

The light felt different.

Everything did.

She stared at the smudged corner of the glass case where the scones usually went and felt a slow, crawling sensation under her skin.

“It’s just for the night,” Oscar said gently from behind her.

She didn’t answer. Her fingers twisted the hem of her sleeve, tugging. Tight, then tighter.

“Margot?”

“I need—” Her voice came out small, clipped. “It’s all wrong.”

Lando looked up from where he was stacking chairs onto tables. “The window, yeah?”

“Everything.”

They both watched her carefully now.

She hated that.

“I just— I need to clean,” she said, moving suddenly, almost too fast. “I can’t— I can’t leave it like this.”

Oscar stepped toward her, slow. “We cleaned up most of it.”

“Not the right way,” she snapped — not at him, not exactly, but at the air, at the mess, at the fact that her entire world felt untouched by her usual rituals. “Not how I do it.”

Lando looked like he wanted to say something funny. Light. But thought better of it. Stayed quiet instead.

Margot moved behind the counter like her body wasn’t fully connected to her brain — automatic, disconnected. She reached for the cleaning bucket, pulled it from the shelf under the sink, then crouched down and grabbed the scrubbing brush with too-tight fingers.

Then she dropped to her knees. Hard. Didn’t wince. Didn’t blink.

She started scrubbing at the floor where the paint had bled into the grout — short, frantic strokes, her jaw locked so tight her temples ached.

Her whole body hummed like a live wire.

The sponge squeaked, caught on the uneven tile, left a cloudy smear behind.

It wasn’t lifting. It should lift. The chemical smell wasn’t strong enough, the water was too warm now, the brush too soft. Everything was wrong.

Oscar crouched nearby, close enough to be present but not so close he’d crowd her. His voice was quiet. Careful.

“You don’t have to do it all tonight. It won’t get any worse overnight, and you can call someone to help you—”

Her hands didn’t stop moving as she cut him off. “I won’t be able to sleep,” she said, too fast. Her voice cracked on right.

A silence stretched, awkward and full of breath that didn’t know where to settle.

Lando was pacing in slow, uneven loops near the door — sneakers squeaking faintly against the floor she hadn’t mopped yet. He kept running a hand through his hair, shifting weight from foot to foot like the room was too tight on his skin.

“Okay…” he said, then paused, scratched the back of his neck. “I mean—what do we do? To help, I mean.”

Margot stopped scrubbing.

Just for a second.

She looked up. The brush dangled loosely in her hand, dripping pinkish water onto the tiles.

Oscar knelt across from her, patient and calm in a way that didn’t feel fake. Lando looked like a man accidentally locked in a porcelain shop with a bull—desperate to help, no idea how.

“I have a system,” she said, quietly. Not looking at them. Just the floor.

Lando blinked. “Okay.”

She swallowed. It was hard, like her throat wasn’t built for words tonight.

“It’s stupid, but—”

“Not stupid,” Oscar said, voice low and sure. Like it wasn’t even up for debate.

She blinked fast. Bit the inside of her cheek.

“I clean the display case first. Always.” Her fingers moved to tuck a loose piece of hair behind her ear, even though it wasn’t in her face. “Windex first, then polish. I do the floor under it after. Then the espresso machine handles — there’s a toothbrush in the drawer for those. Then the tables. Clockwise. I—” She shook her head. “I have to go clockwise. I’ve tried the other way. It… doesn’t work.”

She didn’t say how sometimes she had to start over completely if she broke the order. Or how her hands would itch for hours if she didn’t.

“Last is the fridge,” she finished, voice quieter now. “I always finish with the fridge.”

Lando scratched his head again. “Right. Okay. Case first.”

He looked around like the case might tell him what to do.

Oscar was already moving toward the cupboard beneath the sink. “Do you want the glass cleaner with the blue label or the green one?”

Margot’s eyes darted up. “Blue. The green one streaks.”

Oscar nodded and handed it to Lando. 

“Which cloth?” Lando asked.

She pointed to the pile folded neatly in a drawer. “Top one. They’ve all been steam-hygeined.”

He didn’t ask why that mattered.

Didn’t joke.

Just took it.

Oscar knelt back beside her, a different brush in hand. “This one okay?”

She nodded.

And the three of them got to work.

Lando grumbled when he accidentally sprayed himself in the eye with the white vinegar solution. Oscar silently switched to a fresh cloth halfway through without being asked. And Margot — scrubbed and rinsed and wiped until her arms ached, but her mind slowed.

They cleaned until the only thing left to fix was the window. And as much as she wished they could tackle that too — she’d have to wait for the window repair company to come in the morning. 

_

Margot had never been in the passenger seat of a McLaren.

To be fair, she still hadn’t — Lando’s road car was a slick, low-slung Land Rover with leather that still smelled new. It felt too nice for someone with glass dust on her shoes. Too warm, too enclosed, too personal.

Still, she didn’t argue when they insisted on driving her home.

Didn’t push when Oscar took the wheel like it was routine. Didn’t ask why Lando slid into the passenger seat of his own car instead of the drivers.

She just sat. Buckled in. Stared out the window while the soft hum of Monaco’s late-night lull passed by in quiet blurs.

It was only ten minutes, maybe less. But it was enough.

Enough to see it.

The way Oscar drove like he knew the car and the roads like the back of his hand. The way Lando rested his palm across the back of Oscar’s seat like it lived there. He probably didn’t even notice he was doing it. It wasn’t performative. It was just… there.

They didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to.

At a stop light, Oscar reached forward to adjust the music — and Lando’s hand caught his wrist, gently, like it wasn’t the first time he’d done that exact thing.

“No Coldplay,” Lando muttered, more yawn than protest.

Oscar didn’t roll his eyes, but Margot felt the eye roll somehow. The corners of his mouth twitched and he didn’t change the song.

It wasn’t dramatic. Wasn’t loud. But it was intimate in the way that quiet things often are.

They didn’t even notice they were doing it.

And maybe that’s what made it hit her all at once — not the touch, or the glances, or the silence filled with ease — but the unconsciousness of it. Like their closeness had muscle memory.

She’d known, kind of. Alex had mentioned it. 

The way Oscar showed up to grovel on Lando’s behalf, the way they’d shown up tonight without even hesitating — together.

But now she knew.

And not in a gossip way. Not in a tabloid headline way.

In the way that made her feel like she’d stumbled into a room that didn’t quite have a door for her yet.

She wrapped her arms around herself tighter.

Outside, the roads got narrower. Her building loomed.

Oscar pulled up to the curb, headlights casting a pale arc across the stone facade.

“Do you want us to walk you up?” Lando asked from the back, voice soft.

She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

Oscar didn’t argue.

But his eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. Just a second. Steady.

“Lock the door behind you,” he said.

She gave a small nod.

“Text me when you’re in,” Lando added. Then, after a beat, “I mean, text Alex. She’ll text us.”

Us. 

Margot smiled, faint and tired. “Got it.”

She opened the door. Paused with one foot on the pavement.

“Thanks,” she said. It wasn’t just about the ride home. 

“Anytime,” Oscar said.

Lando gave a small grin, head tilted against the window.

She shut the door gently. Didn’t look back.

But as she climbed the stairs to her flat, fingers still trembling slightly, she found herself thinking not about the window, not about the plywood or the paint or the wrongness of her floors—

—but about the way Oscar had let Lando change the song.