Chapter 104 CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR

Chapter 104 CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR


AVERY

I did not realize it was going to be like this.
That was the first mistake.
The second was assuming that a bakery capable of producing life-altering cookies would operate under normal human rules, such as reasonable wait times, accessible service, and the basic courtesy of not making me question all of my life choices before noon.
The queue was massive.
No.
Massive was too gentle a word.
The queue was offensive.
It started at the counter, spilled past the display case, curled along the wall, escaped through the door, and continued down the sidewalk like the entire town had collectively decided that today was the day to emotionally invest in baked goods. There were people on their phones. People with strollers. A man in a suit who looked like he had abandoned a meeting for this. A girl in matching workout set who was somehow still glowing. Someone near the front was already holding a box with the quiet arrogance of the chosen.
I stopped on the pavement and stared.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
No one answered, because no one cared. They were all already in the line. Committed. Spiritually prepared. Meanwhile, I had arrived with the naïve confidence of a girl who thought she could casually walk in, buy cookies from Asher Whitlock’s secret bakery, and leave with her dignity mostly intact.
I joined the end of the line because the alternative was going home empty-handed and living with the knowledge that I had been defeated by pastry logistics.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
The line did not move so much as it experienced the concept of movement as a rumor. Every time someone shifted, hope flared stupidly in my chest, only to die when I realized they were just adjusting their stance. A woman in front of me was scrolling through photos of cookies like she was studying for an exam. Behind me, a couple was debating whether the brown butter version was “worth the hype.”
I already knew it was worth the hype.
That was the problem.
By minute fifteen, my patience had begun to fray in small, bitter threads. By minute twenty, I was actively rethinking every decision that had led me here, including the original sin of tasting the cookies in the first place. If I had never eaten them, I would be at home right now. Emotionally repressed. Cookie-free. Stable.
Instead, I was on a sidewalk, held hostage by my own taste buds.
I leaned slightly toward the person in front of me, a guy in a hoodie who looked like he had done this before and hated that for himself.
“Is it always like this?” I asked.
He didn’t even turn fully around. “You should’ve come earlier.”
“It’s eleven.”
“Exactly. Late.” He took a sip from a reusable cup. “This place books out in spirit by nine. If you’re not prepared to suffer, you’re not prepared for the cookies.”
“That’s an insane sentence.”
“And yet,” he said, gesturing at the line, “look around.”
I did.
It was somehow longer than when I arrived. I was convinced people were multiplying. Or spawning. Or being created by the bakery itself as a loyalty test.
We moved three steps in twelve minutes.
Three.
Steps.
A child near the middle of the line began crying, and instead of sympathy, several people looked personally offended by the delay. Someone near the door clapped once when a customer left with a box, which felt cultish and deeply concerning. My feet hurt. My pride hurt more. Every time the smell of warm sugar drifted out of the shop, my soul tried to leave my body and go wait closer to the counter without me.
I checked the time.
Then checked it again, as if the first check might have been a cruel hallucination.
I thought about leaving at least four separate times. Each time, the memory of that cookie rose up like a betrayal. Soft center. Crisp edges. Chocolate that had absolutely no right to be that good. Asher’s stupid voice in my head saying they were the best I’d ever taste.
The worst part was that he had been right.
By the time I finally crossed the threshold into the actual bakery, I had aged emotionally. The interior was warm and golden and beautiful in a way that felt rude after the suffering outside. 
I stepped forward with the intensity of someone about to secure a vital medical resource.
The girl at the counter gave me a tired, professional smile. “Hey. What can I get you?”
“The chocolate chip cookies,” I said immediately. “As many as you’re allowed to sell one person without involving the authorities.”.
“You’re lucky,” she said. “We just have one left.”
I blinked.
“I’m sorry. One?”
“One piece,” she confirmed, already reaching for the tongs. “We completely sold out otherwise. Do you still want it?”
Did I still want it.
I had stood in a line that redefined human endurance. I had questioned my ego, my hunger, my unresolved issues with a boy I was supposed to be avoiding, and the entire capitalist structure of limited baked goods. And she was asking if I still wanted the final cookie like this was a casual decision and not the emotional climax of my morning.
“…Yes,” I said, defeated. “I’ll take it.”
She boxed up the single cookie with the care of someone handling evidence. I paid. I accepted the tiny box with both hands, like a consolation prize for surviving my own decisions.
Outside again, the sunlight felt personally mocking.
One cookie.
After all that.
I did not eat it on the way home. I was tempted… aggressively, spiritually tempted but something in me decided the cookie deserved a proper arrival. Or maybe I just wanted to suffer one more time for sport. Either way, the little box sat in the passenger seat the entire drive like a fragile trophy.
By the time I got back to the house, I was already imagining the quiet dignity of eating it alone in the kitchen.
That plan died the second I opened the front door.
Voices.
From the living room.
Specifically: Jace’s excited chatter, and under it, a lower, familiar voice that made my stomach drop straight through the floor.
Asher.
I froze in the entryway with the bakery box still in my hand.
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no.
I had not mentally prepared for this. I had prepared for cookies. Not Asher Whitlock casually existing in my house like the universe was committed to humiliating me in chapters.
I walked into the living room anyway.
Jace was on the couch in his pajamas, clearly thriving. Asher sat in the armchair beside him, posture relaxed, like showing up unannounced after last night’s emotional disaster was a normal social activity.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hey,” Asher replied.
His eyes drifted immediately to the box in my hand.
Then his mouth curved.
“I see you liked that cookie,” he said. “I was right, wasn’t I?”
Yes.
Yes, he was right.
They were the best cookies I had ever had in my life, and I had endured a line long enough to qualify as character development just to get the last one.
But I was not about to feed his ego.
“No, no. I never had them ,” I said quickly. “They’re for Jace.”
I turned toward the couch before Asher’s smile could get any more offensive and held the box out.
“Here, buddy.”
Jace’s whole face lit up. “For me?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Avery!” he said excitedly, already opening the box with the enthusiasm of a child who had no idea he was receiving the final artifact of my morning trauma.
I sat down on the edge of the couch and watched him take the first bite.
Oh my God.
Oh my God.
He made a happy little sound. Crumbs gathered at the corner of his mouth. He swung his legs and chewed like this was just another nice snack and not the cookie I had waited an geological era in line for. The soft center. The perfect chocolate. The entire reason I had left the house.
Gone.
In three bites.
I felt myself die a little in real time.
Jace licked a smear of chocolate from his thumb. “This is so good.”
“I’m glad,” I said weakly.
Inside, I was screaming.
All that waiting. All that sidewalk suffering. All those existential questions about hunger and pride and Asher Whitlock’s superior bakery intelligence. For this. For watching my little brother happily destroy the last cookie on earth while I sat there performing selflessness like a fraud.
Asher leaned back against the couch, voice mild.
“Generous of you.”
I didn’t look at him.
“I’m a very generous person.”
“Clearly.”
Jace finished the final bite and smiled at me with pure, innocent gratitude. “You’re the best.”
My heart melted.
But ny dignity did not recover.