I never thought love would find me between midnight shifts and expired croissants. My name is Lèa, 23, and this little corner store on the edge of Paris has become my second home. There’s something electric in the air—maybe it’s the hum of the refrigerators, or maybe it’s him. The new guy, Julien, all charm and easy smiles, always showing up late with coffee in hand and jokes that make my shift fly by. Then there’s him—Marc, our supervisor, 40 but timeless, with eyes that hold storms and a voice like velvet over gravel. He watches me when he thinks I don’t notice. I tell myself this is just a job, just temporary. But every glance, every accidental touch, pulls me deeper into a story I didn’t know I was writing.