Page 43 of Back to You
Mariana
The scent of fresh pan sobao and honey clings to the air, even with the faint bitterness of sawdust mixing in.
The bakery isn’t finished just yet—half the shelves still needed to be installed, the walls still needed a second coat of paint, and the display cases weren’t stocked with the pastries that lived in my head before they ever made it into the oven.
This was supposed to be a simple renovation. Fix the fire suppression system and the broken tiles. Replace the flickering overhead lights. Make the space functional.
But somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking about what was easy and started thinking about what was me. Ruth told me to make the place my own, and I finally decided that she was right.
Now, warm terracotta tiles line the floor, reminding me of the homes in Ponce, where the afternoons stretched lazy and golden, where my abuela’s laughter carried through the open windows.
Hand-painted tiles framed the front counter, the deep blues and rich yellows a nod to the streets of my mother and father's home, where color wasn’t just a decoration—it was life.
I wanted this place to feel like home. Not just any home, my home. A space where the scent of quesitos, mallorcas, and pastelillos de guayaba greeted people at the door.
Where café con leche wasn’t just coffee, it was a ritual, comfort. A reminder of long afternoons in my abuela’s kitchen when we visited each summer, watching her pour just the right amount of sugar into my cup while she hummed old boleros.
This wasn’t just a bakery. It was Ponce, it was family. This bakery is the piece of me I didn’t know I was trying to hold onto until now. I’ve faced so much loss since leaving this town—more than I ever expected. And somehow, Seba became part of it too.
He stood at the back of the room, measuring a strip of wood against the wall, his brow furrowed in concentration. His presence here was something I should’ve gotten used to by now—but I hadn’t.
He was too much. Too close, too steady, too damn persistent. I pulled my attention back to the countertop in front of me, kneading dough with more force than necessary.
Maybe if I focused on my work, I wouldn’t focus on him. Except, that was impossible. Seba was always here, and even if he wasn’t, I think my mind would still wander to him.
A moment later, he walked over, stopping at the other side of the counter. The space between us felt too small, or maybe it was just the memories rushing in, reminding me how effortless it used to be, how right it once felt to stand this close. But that was the past. Now, we are just friends.
“You know you don’t have to do all this, right?” I said, glancing at him as he drilled a shelf bracket into place.
“You need the help.”
I huffed. “I can figure it out myself.”
“Yeah? That’s why you almost broke the espresso machine last week?”
I locked my gaze in place. "That was an accident."
“Uhuh.”
I could hear the grin in his voice, and it set something hot and restless in my chest. I groaned, throwing a piece of dough at him. He caught it easily, laughing, and it made my stomach flip.
It wasn’t fair. He wasn’t supposed to still make me feel this way. Not after all these years. Not after I was the one who chose to leave, meanwhile breaking his heart.
I reached for the flour, but at the same time, so did he. Our fingers brushed. I froze. So did he.
The air stretched thin between us like a thread pulled too tight, ready to snap at any moment. I should move. Seba’s fingers shifted, barely, but enough to make it clear that he wasn’t pulling away. Neither was I. But why? Why wasn’t I pulling away?
His eyes flicked to mine, something unreadable swimming beneath the surface. Something dangerous. Something that terrifies me.
“Mariana,” he murmured, my name thick in his throat.
A shiver rolled down my spine. I knew this moment. I remembered how it felt to stand on the edge of something irreversible, and this felt exactly like that. Like we would make a move that would change things forever, a move we wouldn’t be able to turn back on.
Then something sharp and cold cut through the moment. Panic. A feeling lodged so deep in my bones that I didn’t even realize it was still there. A feeling that I’ve spent this past year trying to run away from, pretending it didn’t exist.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I had kissed the wrong person before. I had been touched by hands that didn’t care if I wanted it or not.
Seba’s touch had never been like that. It never would be, and logically, I knew that. I knew that Seba would never do the things Andrew did to me, the physical and mental pain he had caused.I knew this, yet my body didn’t know how to separate the past from the present. My stomach twisted, and suddenly, I couldn’t do this. I just couldn’t.
