ava-angel

I woke to the smell of yeast-risen dough and golden-brown crusts, as I had done every day - except Sundays - since Jake and I had been living together in the one bedroom apartment above Patty's, La Push's only bakery. We had our own entrance through a weather-beaten wooden staircase and platform, worn to a shade of seasick green by years of salty ocean winds, that wrapped around the East side of the shop. But the smell never bothered with official entrances. It permeated through the tiniest of cracks in the windowsills, through the floorboards that creaked now, as I got out of bed and saw my Jacob sitting at the breakfast table. I never g