Waking up is a challenge. I feel like I slept twenty four hours— not in a good way. I open my eyes to a sunny Thursday morning. I just wish my body wouldn’t hurt so much. The group chat pinged just as I was dragging myself out of bed.

  Jessie: We're coming to your place. No way you're commuting like a fever zombie.

  Dean: Yeah, we have stuff to sort. And you'll just pretend you're fine to go to the office, so you can do that but at home. What do you think?

  I reply before I even finish reading:

  Me: YES.

  I get up, tie my hair into some half-conscious version of a bun, and shuffle into the kitchen. I’m definitely feeling better than yesterday, though my body still feels like a big bruise.

  Daniel looks up from his phone. "Feeling okay?"

  "Better. Can you do me a favor?"

  "Depends."

  "Go to the bakery and get pastries? Jessie and Dean are coming over to work from here today."

  He sets his phone down and gets up. "That I can do."

  I’m halfway through washing my face, the coffee already dripping into the pot, when the intercom starts buzzing.

  I open the door and they burst in like sunshine after a storm — loud, bright, already mid-laugh.

  Dean drops his bag and makes a beeline for Greta. "Miss you, little alien." He scoops her up like a baby and rubs his face in her fur.

  Jessie drops her jacket on a chair and sniffs the air walking towards the kitchen. "I can smell coffee."

  Daniel comes in right behind them with two paper bags, the smell of warm carbs trailing after him like perfume.

  "God bless you," Dean says, peeking into one. "Are those almond croissants?"

  "They are." He signals the second bag. "And also some with dulce de leche — Emma's favorites. And cinnamon rolls with nuts."

  "King behavior," Dean is already checking into my special order.

  "Hey—hands off the dulce de leche. I’m sick." I point at the bag like it’s evidence. "Doctor’s orders."

  He raises his hands, laughing. "Okay, okay. The patient has claimed her carbs."

  We all gather around the kitchen table, pulling laptops and notebooks and various chargers like we’re about to launch a small company.

  Daniel turns the kitchen into a small café — lining plates, cutting pastries into halves and quarters, moving between us to refill mugs like he’s working a slow morning shift. The attention charms everyone. He looks quietly satisfied in the role of host.

  He sets three plates on the table, strategically placed — the dulce de leche ones end up right next to me — and hands immediately start investigating the options in this pop-up café.

  I grab a piece of dulce de leche croissant without even thinking.

  The flaky layers crunch softly as I bite in, the dulce de leche flooding my mouth. Sweet, deep caramel milk folded into butter and pastry — unbeatable.

  Jessie looks like she’s having a religious experience with her cinnamon roll. Dean eyes my plate, openly jealous.

  I laugh. "Grab one."

  "No. Now I’m scared."

  "Shut up," I say, already grabbing a piece and sliding it onto a napkin next to him.

  He smiles "Let’s see what’s the big deal with these" and takes a bite— "Oh. Yeah."

  I nod because I know. "Right?"

  Breakfast dissolves into movement — plates stacking, crumbs wiped away — and Daniel is already clearing the table.

  "So," Jessie says between sips of coffee, "we need to choose between the uptown loft or the floral courtyard in Williamsburg."

  "I say courtyard," I offer. "There's more natural light and it ties better with the softness of the theme."

  Dean nods. "Agreed. Also more places to hang ribbons from."

  She starts to type immediately. "I'll confirm it with production today."

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  We talk about dresses, designer options, narrow down accessory choices, and pick a date for the first fitting, Wednesday next week. It would be at the studio, with the full glam team. Just one fitting, unless something went very wrong — hair and makeup would be tested that day too.

  We were in a groove, riding the high of good ideas and almond sugar when I got the email.

  "Guys," I said, holding up my screen. "They approved the advance."

  Jessie leaned over. "Nice."

  Dean frowns. "Wait — we asked for an advance?"

  I clear my throat. "Yeah. Just to cover any pre-production stuff. Studio costs, props... you know."

  Dean tilts his head. "But the studio is ours. And we already have the props."

  "Well—true," I say, suddenly very interested in the coffee mug I'm holding. "But it's standard. A lot of teams do it this way. And I wanted to cover any idea we might come up with."

  He looks unconvinced. "Not to be here, but… next time, can we talk about that first? It kind of makes us look unprofessional if we're not aligned."

  "You're right," I say. "Totally fair. Next time, full group vote." I sip my coffee. "That said, if either of you need to take something from the advance, we can split a part of it."

  Jessie raises her hand. "I could actually use a little cushion this month. Rent hit weird."

  I glance at her. Is she saying it first, so Dean doesn’t have to?

  Dean scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah, I mean... I'm not gonna say no to money."

  He really needs the money, but he’ll play it nonchalant until the last minute. Pride always goes first.

  We spent the rest of the morning in an easy flow — talking mood-boards, ribbon placements, lighting setups. Greta fell asleep on Dean's notes. Jessie took over the floor with pins and mock-ups.

  And for a moment, everything is exactly how I imagine adulthood would be when I was fourteen — creative, chaotic, collaborative.

  Around noon, my phone buzzes with a text from Lucia— and it hits me that we were supposed to meet today.

  Lucia: Che boluda, I'm drowning here, this interview is a full day thing. Can we move our hang para ma?ana? (Dude, I’m drowning over here — this interview’s turning into an all-day thing. Can we move our hang to tomorrow?)

  Me: Yes, Please. I'm still recovering from a fever episode. Tomorrow's perfect.

  Relief spreads through me. I can’t picture Ana and Lucia in the same room without a flicker of unease.

  Daniel is in the kitchen cutting and washing. I start to smell garlic when he says, "Are you guys in for some focaccia sandwiches?"

  Dean and Jessie's eyes glimmered. She just says "YES!", and he says "I'm feeling things…" looking at me, touching his heart.

  I chuckle.

  "So, this is a vegetarian house," Daniel says, like about to start a ted talk. "I'm going for sundried tomatoes, pesto, ricotta and a bit of rocket. Are you okay with that?"

  "You got me with focaccia like three sentences ago" Dean is already convinced.

  Jessie is just nodding non stop, "I love everything you said."

  We go back to work until Daniel delivers the sandwiches to the table. The smell of pesto is hypnotizing.

  We are halfway through our sandwiches when Daniel says, wiping his fingers on a napkin, "After this I'm heading to see Martin. Then straight to Sunset."

  "Oh yeah?" I say, careful, light.

  "Yeah." He takes a sip of water. "He's... not doing great. Ana just ghosted him, apparently. Blocked him from everything and left a note asking him to leave the apartment in two days. No explanation."

  I open my eyes wide. The words hit me like a quiet slap. "He told you that?" I ask, keeping my voice steady.

  Daniel nods, distracted. "Yeah. Just found the note when he got home. The weirdest thing. They were here the other day perfectly fine and normal."

  "She didn't even say why?" Jessie asks, uninterestingly curious.

  Daniel shakes his head. "He says he has no idea. Just came home and found the note. It's crazy, right?" His sandwich starts falling apart. He picks a dried tomato and eats it. "And they've been dating, the same as Emma and me, for like three years or something."

  I nod slowly, but my stomach starts to twitch. Not just because I know the truth, I know why she left — but because I could see it. The careful omissions. The half-truths Martin is already starting to spin. And now I’m part of it too. I’m not lying, but I haven’t even told Daniel that Ana might be sleeping here tonight, but it feels like a manageable omission. I file it away, already knowing it’s going to come back at the worst possible moment.

  I pressed my hand to the side of my face, suddenly too warm.

  Jessie looks between us. "Well, something must've happened. She wouldn't just disappear."

  Daniel shrugs. "I don't know. Martin looks wrecked."

  Dean is too busy dividing his focus between his sandwich and something on his laptop screen to chime in the conversation.

  Jessie closes her eyes a bit like smelling "I bet there's something your friend is not telling you. No one and you have ZERO clue of what happened. Or he was not paying attention to his relationship." ('there's a locked-up cat' in Spanish is a saying similar to 'something smells fishy')

  Daniel pauses, like letting her words sink in. "I mean, I suppose. Why would someone fake like everything is fine and then just vanishes."

  I try not to give any opinion about it, omission is enough. We all get up and take our plates to the kitchen sink. Luckily, Dean is already sharing about the video he was watching, with this effect that makes strong colors glow and fade like a blurry dream, and how we could use it for our visuals. We all sit around his computer to check it out.

  Greta jumps up on my lap and sits into a perfect little loaf. I run a hand down her spine.

  Daniel kisses my cheek on his way out, his bag slung over one shoulder. "Text me if your fever spikes again, okay?" he says.

  "Yeah." I nod. "See you later babe,"

  "Bye guys!" He gestures with his hand. Both say .

  Dean stretches in his chair like it’s hard to stay awake. "That sandwich was heaven. Maybe we should work from home every day — and by that, I mean Emma's home," still dreamy from focaccia bliss.

  "We've finished everything on today's list. I emailed to confirm a fitting for Wednesday the 19th. And I CC'd Liam about that, and also about Monday's meeting with the designer to finalize the looks." I say, like checking boxes.

  We were already talking about what's next. Because — as Dean so eloquently put it — "One Vain job does not pay rent." So we started planning a shoot for a small indie magazine. Very surrealist. Very broke. Very us. Dean was already pulling references while Jessie jotted down theme ideas.

  That's when Liam's email hit my inbox.

  I stare at it. Blinked. Once. Twice.