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Mom’s humming fills the kitchen, mixing with the sizzle of bacon and coffee brewing. Her floral apron is spotted with flour as she guides my small hands through the dough. “Gentle, cookie. Let it breathe.”
My fingers sink into the soft dough. It feels alive, responding to each touch. Mom’s hands cover mine, showing me the right pressure, the perfect rhythm.
“The secret,” she says, “is to love what you’re making. Food knows when you’re angry, when you’re sad. It tastes different.”
“What if I can’t get rid of it?” My small hands pause in the dough. “The anger.”
The kitchen dims, shadows creeping in at the edges.
“Brandon…” Her voice sounds different. Wrong. “Everyone has anger, cookie. But don’t let it?—”
The dough turns black under my fingers, rotting, spreading like ink across the counter, and Mom’s hands disappear.
“Mom?”
“You’re a disappointment.”
The kitchen warps, stretches. Darkness pools in the corners.
“Mom!”
“Wake up, asshole.”
My eyes snap open.
Sebastian looms over me, backlit by morning sun streaming through the windows.
“The fuck you doing here?” I scrub my neck, hurting from sleeping on the couch. “Don’t tell me you missed my sunny disposition.”
“Cute.” He kicks my feet off the coffee table. “Your phone’s been dead for hours. We were supposed to meet at the gym.”
“How’d you get in?”
“Spare key.” He surveys the apartment, whistling low. “Place looks different. Almost civilized.”
I stand, muscles protesting. “Coffee?”
“Already brewing.” He blocks my path to the kitchen. “What’s going on?”
The dream lingers like a hangover, making everything too sharp, too raw. “Nothing?”
“This is not nothing.” He gestures around. “The cleaning frenzy. The dead phone. Blake called.”
“Blake called you?” My jaw tightens. “That snitch.”
“Said you showed up drunk at Naomi’s.” Sebastian leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Want to explain?”
“Not particularly.” The coffee maker beeps. Thank fuck.
“Brandon.”
“What?” I grab two mugs, the ceramic clinking harder than necessary. “You want me to pour my heart out? Talk about my feelings?”
“Would it kill you?”
“Probably.” The coffee’s too hot, but I drink it anyway. Let it burn.
Sebastian watches me, that same look he gave me when I totaled his car in college. Like he’s waiting for me to crack. “The cleaning thing?—”