Page 73 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

I turn back to the counter, measuring flour with unnecessary precision. "We'll see."

He doesn't respond to the challenge, just moves beside me, close enough that our arms brush as he reaches for a bowl. The contact sends electricity up my spine, traitorous body responding to his proximity.

"I'll handle the bacon," he says, retrieving a package from the refrigerator. "You always burn it."

"I don't burn it. I make it crispy."

"Cremated isn't crispy, Chanel."

For a moment, we're back in our first apartment, navigating the too-small kitchen on Sunday mornings, bodies moving in a choreography of casual intimacy. Before board meetings, billionaire status and the growing silences that eventually swallowed everything we'd built.

Before I found myself alone with divorce papers, a toddler and a future I hadn't planned for.

"Dad! You're up!" Jaden's voice breaks the fragile moment. He launches himself at Jakob with unrestrained enthusiasm, arms wrapping around his waist.

Jakob's expression transforms, softening in ways I've cataloged with increasing frequency this weekend. His hand settles on Jaden's head, the gesture so natural it makes my chest ache with a specific pain I've become expert at ignoring.

The pain of witnessing the father Jakob has become against the absence of the husband he was.

"Ready for pancakes, champ?" He ruffles Jaden's hair, eyes meeting mine over our son's head. Something passes between us—acknowledgment, perhaps. Recognition of what we've created despite our failures. Or because of them.

"Can we put chocolate chips in them?" Jaden's question directed at me, understanding instinctively that some permissions still fall under maternal jurisdiction.

"Special occasion," I concede, unable to deny him this small joy. Unable to explain that this—this temporary truce, this weekend of playing family—isn't something to get used to.

He whoops, already reaching for the cabinet where sweets are stored. Already assuming continuation. Permanence. Happy endings I've never trusted—not even in fairytales I read him as a child.

"Careful," Jakob warns as Jaden climbs onto the counter to reach the high shelf. "Let me?—"

"I got it!" Our son's voice bright with determination and the confidence of nine-year-old boys who believe themselves invincible. The cabinet door swings open too quickly, catching him off-balance. For a heartbeat, he teeters on the edge of the counter.

Jakob and I move simultaneously, instinct overriding thought. His arm wraps around Jaden's waist as my hand grabs his shoulder, steadying him before disaster can manifest. We stand frozen in a tableau of near-miss parenting, Jaden suspended between us, three bodies connected in the most basic act of protection.

"Whoa," Jaden says, grinning, already dismissing the danger. "That was close."

"Down," I order, heart still pounding. "Now."

Jakob lowers him to the floor, his own face tight with the same fear that burns through my veins. For a moment, we're united again in the most fundamental way—as parents who would do anything, risk everything, to keep this small human safe.

"I was fine," Jaden protests, oblivious to the current passing between us. "I wouldn't have fallen."

"You don't know that," Jakob says, voice carrying the edge that makes boardrooms go silent. "And some risks aren't worth taking."

The statement lands with dual meaning, though Jakob may not intend it.Some risks aren't worth taking. Some chances too dangerous to chance. Some falls too devastating to risk.

Like this weekend. Like the fragile peace we've established. Like the feeling that grows in my chest when I watch him with our son—when he touches me with reverence rather than possession, when he whispers truths in darkness he never shared in light.

"Let's just use a stepstool next time," I say, diffusing the tension. Retreating to the practicality that's become my sanctuary. "Chocolate chips aren't worth broken bones."

"Or giving your mother a heart attack," Jakob adds, hand settling briefly on my lower back. The touch casual, instinctive, intimate in its unconscious claim.

I don't move away. Don't correct the familiarity. Don't remind him of boundaries I myself crossed the moment I walked into his bedroom last night.

Instead, I lean slightly into the contact, allowing this small connection while minds race with implications, with questions, with the growing certainty that I'm losing objectivity with each hour that passes in this fantasy.

"Can we play Mario Kart after breakfast?" Jaden asks, already moving past the moment, resilient in the way children are when not taught to hold grudges, to expect disappointment, to anticipate abandonment.

"Homework first," I say automatically, parent-mode engaging like a default setting.