"I’m taking a smoke break! By smoke, I mean touch-up—my eyeliner is smudged."
Mary, teenage employee, niece of Josef Swango, and self-proclaimed queen of dramatics, declares this as she sweeps past the counter, heading for the back door. That is—until a voice stops her.
"What?! Nuh-uh, your break ain’t for another thirty minutes, and a customer with three kids is about to walk in."
Malik—her younger brother, fellow employee, and sworn enemy in the eternal sibling war—freezes mid-sweep, broom held like a staff. His expression is one of sheer, unfiltered betrayal.
"You must be a fool if you think I’m about to serve three crotch gremlins by myself."
The rule is simple: One leaves, the other covers. If Mary ditches the register, Malik takes over.
Josef? Oh, he doesn’t get involved. He’s the baker. Flour and dough are his only concerns.
Mary rolls her eyes with all the grace of a sitcom diva, whipping her hair as she struts to the back door. Malik’s jaw drops. Then, with a scowl, he calls out—
"Okay, you remember that, you—"
Silence. He mouths the curse instead. "Bitch." Deliberately.
Immediately, he side-eyes his uncle, checking for any sign of consequence. And it would’ve worked… if Josef couldn’t read lips.
But oh, he can.
Josef meets his nephew’s gaze, unimpressed. No scolding, no lecture—just a slow, disappointed shake of the head, like a parent watching their kid make yet another dumb decision.
With a stretch, bones cracking in protest, Josef exhales and turns just as the bakery door swings open.
Cue the customer. Three kids in tow.
Malik’s expression shifts in an instant—customer service mode activated. That too-wide, too-friendly grin has Josef grinning himself. He’s just about to tease his nephew with some overly dramatic gestures when—
The door swings again.
And in tú walks. Josef’s brain short-circuits.
Talk. Talk to them. Say something. Should he sign? What if they don’t know sign language? Speak? God, no, he can’t even hear himself! Wave? That’s normal, right? Yeah, do that!
…But he doesn’t.
No. He just stares. Dead in tú’s face. Like an absolute lunatic.
The kids are terrified, by the way.
