Which, obviously, meant war.
I grabbed a handful of flour and lobbed it at his chest. It exploded like a powder bomb. Roman yelped and retaliated with a puff aimed at my face. I shrieked, flailing, and upended the mixing bowl as I grabbed the counter for balance. Some of the dough ended up smeared across his jaw. He tried to duck behind the fridge door, hit his head, cursed, and somehow flung sugar onto the counter like confetti.
Flour in my eyelashes. Dough on his neck.
We were both breathless from laughing by the time we collapsed on the floor, backs against the lower cabinets, our clothes dusted with white. My cheeks hurt from smiling.
“Truce?” he panted.
“I don’t trust you.”
He held up a jar of peanut butter. “Let’s just eat this and pretend the cookies were a success.”
I grabbed two spoons from the drawer and sank down beside him again. We passed the jar back and forth and ate in silence.
It was almost two in the morning. I should’ve been dead tired. Instead, I felt… light. Not healed. Not fixed. But I wasn’t drowning anymore.
Roman glanced over at me, eyes half-lidded. “You should sleep. I’ll clean.”
“No,” I said, pushing to my feet slowly. “We’ll regret this more if we’re walking zombies tomorrow. We’ll deal with the mess after we sleep.”
He followed me to the hallway, and we paused outside our doors. His was still slightly ajar. Mine was a safe distance away. He was still shirtless. I was still pretending not to notice.
“Night, menace,” I murmured.
“Night, grumpy liar.”
I smiled. He did too.
Roman glanced back at the messy kitchen as if he was deliberating going back to clean it. I wondered if he would make it to bed without taking care of the mess.
I stepped inside my room and closed the door behind me, the soft click too loud in the hush. After wiping myself off with a towel and changing out of my flour-dusted clothes, I flopped onto my bed and let out a long breath.
Please don’t dream about Roman again.
Or do.Just make it less emotionally devastating next time.
Chapter 14
Maggie
My phone buzzed insistentlyagainst the nightstand, like it knew I was trying to avoid reality. I groaned and rolled over, tangled in a mess of sheets and dreams I didn’t want to remember. My eyes were crusty, throat dry, and the early morning light filtering through the curtains felt too bright.
I blinked against the screen’s glow and squinted until the sender’s name came into focus:
Eric.
Just seeing it made my stomach clench. Like muscle memory, an emotional reflex. I opened the message.
Eric: Hey. I’ve been thinking a lot about the farmer’s market run-in. I’d really like to do something mature and healing. How about a double date? You and Roman. Me and Bianca. No pressure. Just friends.
I sat up slowly, wrapping the blanket around me like it could shield me from the emotional minefield waiting inside that text. The words blurred a little, and I rubbed my eyes, hoping it would make them look different. Less polished. Less… him.
I read it again. And again.
Of course, he’d have curated the text to be just self-aware enough to sound evolved, just casual enough to pretend it wasn’t an ambush. Perfectly staged to look like a peace offering while dropping a neat little bomb wrapped in neutral language and fake maturity.
And the worst part was that I felt the old ache. That small, pathetic corner of me still wanted him to look at me and regret everything. That part of me, the one I kept stuffing down, whisperedmaybe.
