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I was thinking about how Sam listened to me. Even when I was rambling or saying something dumb. He’d tilt his head like every word mattered. He remembered what I said.

And God, the way he touched me. The man fucked me like he had superpowers.

It was just sex though.

Though… the sex was more than sex.

My stomach flipped.

The way he pulled me close at night, like he needed to feel me there to rest prove that. The way he looked at me when I was doing the most mundane shit proved that. The way he made me feel like I was a blessing that dropped in his lap proved it too.

I pressed the heel of my hand into the dough harder.

Why couldn’t I get him out of my head? Why couldn’t I forget the way he saidsweetheart, or the way he kissed my forehead like he was grateful I existed?

I felt my throat tighten.

Mark had never looked at me like Sam did. Not even in the beginning.

He gave me things. Paid for things. Took me places.

But he neversawme. Not like Sam did.

The dough stuck to my fingers, but I didn’t stop. I kept kneading, tears brimming in my eyes, threatening to drop into the mix of flour and butter and grief.

It was ironic—one of my favorite books wasLike Water for Chocolate.

I used to love how her emotions flavored the food. Could my sorrow turn the dough bitter? Would my longing make it sweet?

Was there magic in my grief—enough to make something rise.

I blinked hard, erasing my stupid question from my head, I wiped my cheek with the back of my wrist, and kept kneading.

What if I never saw Sam again?

Was he really going to give me a job? How would that work?

I felt myself getting mad.

I closed my eyes and there was a flash—me on top of Sam, his hands gripping my thighs, his voice ragged when he called my name as he came.

The memory lit me up again. Made me ache.

I was standing there—mad, horny, with tears in my eyes.

I finished cooking in that state. Then I packaged everything I had baked. I’d take it to the shelter the next day.

I took a shower. Dressed in a nice dress because Mark liked formal dinner.

The food was cold when I finally stood up from the table a few hours later. I moved on autopilot—scraping uneaten food from the plates, rinsing them, wiping down the counter.

Then I went and sat in the living room in the dark. It was past midnight when the front door creaked open.

Mark walked in like nothing was wrong, dropping his keys in the bowl, loosening his tie. His cologne hit the air and made my lip curl. I wanted to hit him so bad.

I clicked on the light and he looked startled but recovered, immediately going on the defense—like he hadn’t just walked in hours after he said he’d be home.

“You didn’t call,” he said casually.