Page 77 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Forrest

Steam rises from the pan as the batter hits the hot surface, filling the kitchen with the sweet scent of vanilla and chocolate. Morning sunlight streams through the windows, casting everything in a soft golden glow. There’s only one way to describe it—perfect.

“Daddy, they need more chocolate chips!”

I glance over at Dakota, who’s perched on a stool at the kitchen island, her small face serious as she supervises my pancake-making technique.

Her hair is still rumpled from sleep, and she’s wearing the unicorn pajamas Sora bought her last week.

Mr. Flops is tucked securely under one arm, his droopy ears spilling onto the countertop.

“More chocolate chips, huh?” I ask, feigning skepticism. “I don’t know, Koda. The pancake-to-chocolate ratio is already pushing these away from hearty breakfast, and into the realm of dessert.”

“But they’re so much better with extra chips,” she argues, eyes wide with conviction. “Isn’t that right, Sora?”

Sora looks up from where she’s cutting fruit at the counter, a smile playing at her lips. “I’m going to have to side with Koda on this one. Chocolate-chip pancakes should be at least fifty percent chocolate.”

“Two against one,” I sigh, reaching for the bag of chocolate chips. “I’m outnumbered in my own kitchen.”

“It’s my kitchen, actually,” Sora reminds me, bumping her hip against mine as she passes with a bowl of freshly sliced strawberries. “And in this kitchen, we believe in chocolate supremacy.”

A smile spreads across my face as I watch her arrange the fruit on the table—the easy grace of her movements.

How every time she passes Koda, she sweetly touches her—smoothing her hair, tapping the tip of her nose, running her thumb over her cheek.

I can’t believe she was ever nervous about her maternal energy. She’s a natural.

This past week has been surreal in the best possible way.

After returning from Wyoming, we’ve settled into a routine that feels both novel and utterly natural.

Sora working at her desk in the study while I pore over legal textbooks, preparing for the bar exam.

Dakota drawing pictures that now cover the refrigerator.

The three of us making dinner together, watching movies, reading bedtime stories.

I’m living the dream I gave up on years ago.

I drop another handful of chocolate chips into the batter, earning an approving nod from Dakota. “Now stir it clockwise,” she instructs, “or the pancakes get sad.”

“We can’t have sad pancakes,” I agree seriously, following her directions.

“Daddy, can we go to the park after breakfast?” Dakota asks, swinging her legs beneath the counter. “I want to show Sora how high I can swing now.”

“Higher than any four-year-old should legally be allowed to go,” I confirm, flipping a perfectly golden pancake.

“And yes, we can go to the park if you bundle up, and the weather holds.” It’s bizarre to have bright sunshine this late in November.

I’m all for Koda taking advantage of the slides and swings today.

Sora returns to the counter, reaching around Dakota to grab a napkin. She drops a kiss on top of Dakota’s head as she does.

“I was thinking after the park we could stop by the bookstore,” Sora suggests, arranging napkins beside the plates she’s set out. “Our bedtime stories are falling apart at the seams. Time for some new ones perhaps?”

Dakota’s face lights up. “Can we? Please, Daddy?”

“Absolutely,” I agree, sliding the first batch of pancakes onto a waiting plate.

“Can we go see your books in the store too, Sora?” Dakota asks innocently.

“They’re not there, sweetie,” Sora says without flinching. She’s not so sensitive these days.

“Yet,” I add, firmly catching Sora’s gaze. “They’re not there, yet .”

The knock comes as I’m pouring the second batch into the skillet—three sharp raps against the front door, authoritative and impatient.

“I’ll get it,” Sora offers, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

“Babe, I’ve got it.” I hand her the spatula. The aggressive knock gives me pause, and I don’t want either of my girls in harm’s way. “Just don’t let these burn.”

As I make my way through the brownstone, I can’t help marveling again at the fact I live here now.

Not as a guest or a temporary resident, but as someone who belongs.

My jacket has point of pride in the hallway closet.

Dakota’s toys are neatly stacked in a basket by the couch, her tiny sneakers lined up beside mine and Sora’s by the door—tangible signs of our shared life that fill me with quiet contentment.

I smile to myself, thinking about how different things look from just a month ago.

I’ve signed up for a bar exam prep course that starts next week.

I’ve been reviewing my old law school notes, surprised by how much I’ve retained despite my detour into a very different profession.

The prospect of finally becoming a lawyer, of building a career I can be proud of, feels well overdue.

When I open the door, the world tilts on its axis.

Hannah stands on the doorstep, perfectly put-together as always in a cream cashmere coat and designer boots.

Her blond hair is swept into an immaculate updo, not a strand out of place.

But her eyes—cold, hard blue—are rimmed with red, her lips look thin and brittle like she’s pressing them together so hard they might burst.

For a moment, I simply stare, unable to reconcile her presence with the reality of my morning. Hannah. Here. Now. The careful compartmentalization I’ve built—Hannah and the complications she represents in one box, my new life with Sora in another—shatters instantly.

“Hannah?” I manage, shock rendering my voice barely audible. “Are you okay?”

Her laugh is short and humorless. “No, Forrest. I am extremely not okay.” She steps past me into the entryway without waiting for an invitation. “Henry and I broke up. I just got back from Tokyo last night.”

I close the door, mind spiraling. Hannah is here. In New York. In Sora’s house. This encounter wasn’t supposed to happen for months, if at all.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say carefully, maintaining a neutral tone despite the fire alarm screaming in my head. “But why didn’t you call first?”

She shrugs one elegant shoulder. “Would you have answered?”

The truth is, I don’t know. Hannah and I have developed a guarded dance over the years—civil but distant, focused entirely on Dakota. The less actual interaction, the better.

Before I can respond, there’s the rapid patter of small feet on the hardwood.

“Mommy?” Dakota freezes at the entrance to the hallway, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“Koda.” Hannah’s voice softens as she bends toward our daughter, her arms opening. “There you are, sweetheart.”

Dakota hesitates for a heartbeat, then races forward, throwing her arms around Hannah’s legs. “You came back! I missed you so much!”

Hannah kneels down to hug Dakota properly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“I missed you too, baby. Look how tall you’re getting.

” She smooths Dakota’s hair back from her face, though her eyes keep darting elsewhere, her affection feeling forced.

She’s going through the motions of a loving reunion, but something feels off.

“Mommy just had to take care of some things, but I’m here now. ”

Sora appears behind Dakota, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. Her eyes meet mine, questioning. I give a small, helpless shrug.

Hannah’s gaze shifts to Sora, her expression cooling as she takes in the oversized T-shirt—which is obviously mine—sleep shorts, the messy bun, and bare feet. I recognize the look—Hannah sizing up potential competition, assessing weaknesses, plotting strategy.

“You must be the girlfriend,” Hannah says, her tone perfectly pleasant but her eyes sharp as cut glass.

“Sora Cho-Cooper,” Sora confirms, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Hannah.”

Hannah accepts the handshake with the briefest possible contact. “You too.” She turns back to me, dismissing Sora completely. “Forrest, I need to speak with you. Privately.”

Dakota tugs at her mother’s sleeve. “But, Mommy, we’re making chocolate-chip pancakes! You can have some too!”

“Later, sweetie.” Hannah extracts herself from Dakota’s grip with exercised ease. “Mommy needs to talk to Daddy about grown-up things.”

I look to Sora, torn. She gives me a small nod. “I’ll finish making pancakes with Dakota,” she says. “You two can use the study to talk.”

Thank you , I mouth silently as Hannah follows me down the hall.

The study has become Sora’s workspace—her laptop open on the desk, reference books stacked on shelves, notepads filled with her elegant handwriting.

My bar exam materials are piled neatly on one corner of the desk, sticky notes marking important pages.

It feels like an invasion to bring Hannah into this room.

I close the door behind us, gesturing for her to take the leather armchair while I perch on the edge of the desk.

“What’s going on, Hannah?” I keep my voice low, conscious of how sound carries in the old brownstone. “Why are you really here?”

She sinks into the chair with the fluid grace that once captivated me, crossing her legs and adjusting her coat.

“Like I said…I’m back.” When she’s met with silence, she elaborates.

“Henry left me, okay? For his twenty-two-year-old assistant.” Her laugh is brittle.

“Such a cliché, right? After everything I did for him—moving to Tokyo, giving up…” She trails off, but we both know what she was about to say. Giving up her daughter.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I am. Despite everything, I never wanted Hannah to get hurt. “That’s rough.”