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“It’s almost noon.”
“Your point?” I take out the ingredients. “Breakfast food is like my love for you. Available 24/7.” I wink at her eye roll. I love making her do that.
Her phone clicks against the counter. “Did you just quote one of Serena’s Instagram posts?”
“Maybe I’m deep and philosophical.”
A snort. “You don’t have to do this.”
“You’re eating. End of discussion.”
I measure flour into a bowl, keeping my movements precise. It’s been months since I’ve cooked anything, but my hands remember, like riding a bike, if the bike was a $50,000 professional kitchen range.
I crack an egg into the bowl, but my hand slips, and half the shell ends in the batter. I fish it out, cursing under my breath.
Naomi’s voice cuts through my focus. “You okay?”
“Perfect.” I whisk harder, trying to smooth out the lumps in the batter. How hard can it be? I used to do this every day for Nova.
“Brandon.”
“What?”
“You’re getting batter everywhere.”
I glance down. Shit. White drops splatter the counter, my chest, the floor. When did that happen?
“It’s fine.” I grab a paper towel, but my hands are shaking. Fuck. “I got it.”
Naomi slides off the counter. “Let me help.”
“No.” I grip the whisk tighter, knuckles white. “I’m making you breakfast.”
“Why?”
Because I need to prove I still can. Because cooking used to be the one thing that made sense. Because maybe if I can make you one decent meal, it’ll make up for all the other ways I’m failing.
I pour batter into the pan, watching it spread. “Because I want to.”
“Show me how.” She’s quiet for a moment. “I’ve always wanted to learn.”
I pause, glancing over my shoulder. She’s watching me, head tilted, hair still damp and curling around her face.
“Alright.” I clear my throat. “C’mere.”
She steps between the counter and me, bare feet padding across the tile. I hand her the whisk, wrapping my fingers around hers. She doesn’t tense up. Progress.
“First rule of pancakes.” I guide her hand to stir the batter. “Don’t overmix. Lumps are okay. Perfectly imperfect.”
“Lumps are okay,” she echoes. “Got it.”
I step forward, the space between us disappearing as my chest meets her back. “Second rule. Heat. Medium, not high.”
She nods, wisps of hair tickling my chin. “Medium. Not high.”
“Good.” My hand drifts from hers to her hip, my thumb ghosting over the hem of my shirt. “Think you can handle that?”
She turns her head, our noses almost touching. “I think I can manage.”