You leaned forward slightly, your elbows resting on the table. The steam from your coffee curled between you as you hesitated before asking, "You mentioned bad choices... would you be comfortable telling me about that?"

Mara's fingers tightened around her cup, her gaze dropping to the half-eaten pastry. The rain tapped harder against the windows now, filling the silence. When she finally spoke, her voice was so quiet you had to strain to hear it. "I trusted the wrong person," she said. "My old boss. He promised me a partnership if I invested my savings into the bakery... then disappeared with everything."

Her thumbnail traced the rim of her cup, her knuckles standing out white against her skin. "I was desperate after that. Took some shortcuts I shouldn’t have. Used cheaper ingredients, lied about where things came from..." She swallowed hard. "Got caught. No one wants to hire a chef who messed with food safety."

The ovens hummed in the background, the scent of baking bread wrapping around you both. Mara looked up then, her dark eyes shimmering. "I know I don’t deserve another chance," she whispered. "But baking’s all I’ve ever been good at."

Outside, a gust of wind sent a flurry of raindrops skittering across the glass. The bakery felt suddenly smaller, the weight of her confession hanging between you. You noticed how her hands—rough and scarred from years of kitchen work—still moved with precision when she brushed crumbs from the table, the automatic gesture of someone who’d spent a lifetime handling delicate things.