Yuri’s Thoughts, Stirred

The sharp click of Yuri’s heels echoed down the street, steady, precise, unflinching—just as she was. The café’s door had shut behind her, and with it the saccharine chaos of its owner. The afternoon air was brisk, carrying hints of roasted coffee and something sweeter—strawberry, maybe—that clung to her senses like stubborn perfume.

It irritated her. Or so she told herself.

The café had been… unpolished. Disorderly. A far cry from the standards she had built her career upon. She had seen countless bakeries like it—dreamers with ovens, chasing some sentimental notion of sweetness and warmth, always crumbling the moment reality pressed too hard.

And yet…

Her gaze flicked down the street’s reflection, caught faintly in a boutique window as she passed. Her face, of course, betrayed nothing. Calm. Composed. Icy. The perfect critic, untouchable and unreadable.

Inside, though, her thoughts stirred like sugar dissolving in hot tea.

The girl—Mia. She had learned the name from whispers between customers, and it suited her far too well. A soft, almost childish sound, like the girl herself: pink-blond waves, wide eyes sparkling with defiance, an oversized sweater hanging off her frame like she’d been swallowed whole by comfort. She had been ridiculous. Unprofessional. She had challenged Yuri outright.

And—adorable.

Yuri’s steps faltered for only half a second before she regained her rhythm. No. That wasn’t the right word. Adorable was careless, sentimental. Adorable was dangerous.

She quickened her pace, the familiar rhythm of her heels against pavement grounding her. She had no business thinking of a café girl in oversized sleeves. She was Yuri Solberg—the Yuri Solberg. A columnist for The Culinary Standard. Her words could crown or condemn restaurants in a single paragraph. Entire kitchens trembled when she walked through their doors.

So why had this one unsettled her?

Her mind replayed the moment against her will: the way Mia had slammed her palm on the counter, cheeks flushed pink, declaring with laughable bravado, “You’ll come back. And when you do, I’ll make something so good it’ll knock that poker face right off your perfect cheekbones.”

A reckless statement. Utterly foolish.

And yet… Yuri’s lips twitched. A smirk threatened, though she crushed it before it fully bloomed.

Cheekbones, hm? Most people quivered under her critiques, their smiles faltering, their voices trembling. Few dared even meet her eyes, let alone taunt her. But Mia—Mia had stood tall, fire sparking behind her childish sweetness.

That fire… Yuri hadn’t expected it.

She should have dismissed the girl entirely. Written her review and been done with it. The cupcake had been too sweet, the environment amateurish. It would have been an easy critique. And yet… she had given Mia one week. Seven days to impress her.

Why?

Yuri frowned, irritation prickling at her chest. She didn’t grant mercy. Not in her line of work. She judged honestly, coldly, without favoritism. If a baker couldn’t handle it, they didn’t belong in the business. That was the truth, the standard she had built her reputation upon.

But instead of an ending, she had given Mia a challenge.

Cute, a traitorous thought whispered.

Yuri’s fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. No. It wasn’t cuteness. It was… curiosity. Yes, that was all. Curiosity in how someone so unprofessional, so chaotic, so laughably soft, thought she could stand against her. It was like watching a kitten arch its back at a wolf—useless, foolish, but undeniably… fascinating.

The street opened into a quieter square, the hum of traffic fading behind her. She slowed, her eyes half-lidded, recalling the flicker of heat in Mia’s gaze when their eyes had locked. That stubborn spark… it had unsettled her in ways she didn’t like to admit.

No one challenged Yuri Solberg. No one dared to meet her on equal ground.

And yet Mia had, sleeves too long, frosting smudge near her wrist, grinning like she could topple empires with sugar and cream.

Yuri exhaled, steady, controlled. Her face was the same as ever—calm, unreadable—but her pulse betrayed her. A touch too fast. An echo of something she hadn’t felt in years.

She told herself it was annoyance. Irritation. A critic’s righteous fury at being disrespected.

But deep down, in the quiet place she never let anyone see, Yuri admitted something else: Mia’s ridiculous grin had been charming. The way her voice shook with anger but didn’t break—it had been… endearing.

She hated the thought. She hated that it lingered, that the taste of strawberry cream still clung faintly to her tongue, softer than she wanted to admit.

“Cute,” she whispered under her breath, so quietly that even the wind couldn’t carry it.

Her steps resumed, brisk and sharp. One week. She would return in one week, as promised. And when she did, she would taste, she would judge, and she would write.

That was all.

Nothing more.

…And yet, as the city unfolded around her, Yuri found herself wondering—just once, against her better judgment—what kind of smile Mia would wear when she tried again.

———

To be continued…

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