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I should sleep, but I keep waiting for her to vanish like smoke. To decide this was all a mistake and bolt before sunrise.
If I win, you have to open a restaurant.
Thank fuck I won that game. Kind of.
Having her here, I call that the real win.
The mattress dips as I reluctantly ease away. She mumbles something, reaching for the warm spot I’ve left behind, hugging my pillow instead.
Kitchen’s dark except for the dim glow of street lights filtering through the windows. Don’t need light for this anyway. I know it by heart, like the scars on my knuckles from years of burns and cuts.
Flour. Yeast. Salt. Water.
The ingredients line up on the counter like old friends I’ve been avoiding. Been what—six months since I last did this? Since before Dad…
Fuck that. Not going there.
My fingers dig into the flour bag, muscle memory taking over. The measuring cup fills with a softwhoosh, white powder clouding the air like snow. The scent hits me—raw, earthy, full of possibility. Mom used to say you could smell if flour was fresh enough for bread.
In warm water, the yeast blooms, releasing that distinct fermented sweetness of Sunday mornings in our old kitchen.
I dump everything in the bowl, the ingredients coming together with a wet slap that echoes in the quiet kitchen. The dough’s sticky against my palms as I turn it onto the counter, the scrape against marble oddly satisfying.
Push, fold, turn. Push, fold, turn.
Each movement releases another knot in my shoulders, and under my hands, the dough transforms, becoming smooth and elastic. My mind empties. No Dad. No Milton Global. No expectations.
Just this. The rhythm of working dough beneath street lights at 4 AM while the woman I lo?—
While Naomi sleeps in my bed.
The dough gives beneath my fingers, accepting whatever force I put into it, kneading it into something better. Doesn’t judge. Doesn’t demand.
“Brandon?” Naomi stands in the kitchen doorway, drowning in my t-shirt, hair mussed from sleep. There’s that subscription I missed.
Her. In my kitchen. Wearing my shirt.
“Hey, cupcake.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Did I wake you?”
She shakes her head, padding closer on bare feet. Her eyes fix on my hands buried in the dough. “That’s not pancakes.”
“Your detective skills are unmatched.” I resume the rhythm. Push, fold, turn.
“So?”
“Bread’s more forgiving than pancakes.”
“Unlike you?” Her hip bumps into the counter beside me.
“I’m plenty forgiving.” The dough folds under my palms. “I let you massacre those pancakes, didn’t I?”
“Massacre is a strong word.” Her finger darts out, stealing a piece of dough. “You ate them.”
I grab her wrist before she can pop it in her mouth. I’d eat everything she makes me. “Raw flour’s not great for you.”
“Neither is standing alone in the dark at 4:30?” Her pulse flutters against my thumb.
“I’m not alone anymore, am I?”