Backstage & Buttercream

1

The Novello Theatre emptied like someone had pulled a plug.

One minute the street was holding its breath—doors shut, lights bright, London pretending it wasn't damp and tired—and the next it was all bodies and laughter and the scrape of shoes on wet pavement.

Sophie Bennett watched it through the fogged front window of Buttercream Dream Cupcakery, her breath turning the glass hazier every time she leaned in to check the queue.

Packed. Again.

She dragged the sleeve of her cardigan across her wrist, smearing a stripe of buttercream that had been there long enough to start feeling like part of her skin. The air inside the shop was warm and sweet and loud: espresso machine hissing, milk steaming, the bell above the door chiming like it had a vendetta.

Outside, rain glossed the street into a mirror. Inside, her cupcakes disappeared like magic.

"Two salted caramel, one red velvet, and do you still have lemon?" a woman asked, already holding her card out like Sophie might change her mind.

Sophie forced a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Lemon's gone, sorry. I've got vanilla bean and raspberry swirl left."

The woman sighed like Sophie had personally offended her, then nodded. "Fine. Those."

Sophie boxed them quickly—hands moving on muscle memory, brain doing math she didn't want to do. Rent. Supplier invoice. The electric bill that had jumped for no reason other than everything jumping for no reason.

And then, like a bruise you couldn't stop pressing, the other number.

The amount she'd transferred to her parents this month.

Her phone buzzed in her apron pocket.

Sophie ignored it.

It buzzed again.

She slid the box across the counter. "That's £14.50."

The card machine lagged. The woman tapped. Nothing.

A groan rippled through the line.

Sophie's jaw tightened. "Sorry—one second." She reset it with the same calm she used when a batch split or a customer complained or her father's voice turned sharp on the phone. Calm was a skill. Calm was survival.

Her phone buzzed a third time.

She didn't look.

Behind her, the display case was half-empty. She'd baked extra. She always did on show nights. Theatre crowds were sugar-hungry, and the Novello was close enough that people wandered in on instinct—following the smell of vanilla and warm sponge like it was a sign.

Buttercream Dream was her sign.

Her place.

The bell above the door chimed again, and a gust of cold air swept in carrying rain and perfume and that faint metallic scent of London at night.

The queue shifted.

Sophie glanced up—and her brain did a strange little stutter.

Theo.

Her twin brother stood just inside the doorway, hair damp at the edges, cheeks flushed, eyes bright in that way they only got after he'd been onstage. He looked like he was still lit from within, like the spotlight had followed him out.

They didn't look alike. People always said it like it was a riddle they were trying to solve.

Theo had all sharp angles and confidence, a grin that belonged on posters. Sophie had softer edges, hair that refused to behave, and a face that looked like it was always thinking about the next thing that could go wrong.