His tone makes me pause. "Do you think last night was on purpose?"
"I don't know," he admits. "But it was strange that Mrs. Harper specifically told you it was safe, and Ethan and Olivia seemed—"
"Not surprised," I finish, remembering the way they both had watched me as I started coughing.
"We'll figure it out," Emily says firmly. "But right now, we have cookies to decorate, and I've been waiting all day for this." We head toward the kitchen. "Bash was a nervous wreck, by the way. Paced so much I thought he'd wear a hole in the floor."
"I was not a nervous wreck," he protests, following us. "I was... vigilantly concerned."
"He checked your breathing every twenty minutes," Emily stage-whispers. "It was adorable."
I glance back at Bash. My heart swells with something that feels dangerously close to love.
"Come on," I say, squeezing his hand. "Let's see how good you are at handling a bag of royal icing."
The kitchen is a disaster zone of baking ingredients, icing, sprinkles, and cookie crumbs by the time we finish the cookie decorating. Emily's creations are wild explosions of color—her snowman has a rainbow scarf and what appears to be a mohawk. Mine are neat but basic, focusing on traditional colors and patterns. Bash's, surprisingly, look like they belong in a bakery window, precise, artistic, and somehow both playful and elegant.
"I had no idea you were secretly a cookie artist," I say, leaning against his shoulder as we survey our work.
"Man of many talents," he says with a wink. "You haven't even seen my origami skills yet."
"Oh please," Emily snorts, "next you'll tell us you can juggle flaming torches while reciting Shakespeare."
"Hamlet, Act Three, Scene One," Bash says without missing a beat, pretending to toss imaginary torches. "'To be or not to be'—oops, almost dropped one."
I'm laughing when the front door opens, bringing my parents' voices. They look tired as they stomp snow from their boots on the front porch doormat before coming inside.
"Charlotte!" Mom calls, spotting me and rushing over. "How are you feeling, sweetheart?" She cups my face, examining me with the practiced eye of a mother who's nursed me through countless childhood illnesses.
"I'm fine, Mom. Really." I let her fuss for a moment, knowing it makes her feel better.
Dad joins us, his usual composed demeanor slightly rumpled. He wraps me in a tight hug, and I feel like I'm ten years old again, believing my father can fix anything wrong in the world.
"We love you, kiddo," he murmurs against my hair.
"I love you guys too," I say, my voice muffled against his sweater. "But I'm okay, I promise."
Mom notices our cookies and clasps her hands together. "Oh, these are wonderful! What a perfect distraction."
"We need impartial judges," Emily announces, nudging our parents toward the kitchen island. "You don't know whose is whose, so it's a blind test."
Dad adjusts his glasses, assuming his best judge persona. "The court is now in session for the Whitaker Family Cookie Competition."
Mom looks over each set of cookies. A snowflake, snowman, and stocking and Christmas tree are all plated on three separate plates. "We'll judge each contestant's full collection."
They both study each set with comical seriousness, whispering to each other and making exaggerated thinking faces. Emily fidgets beside me, while Bash looks amused by the whole production.
"After careful deliberation," Dad finally announces, "we declare Set C the winner."
"That's mine!" Bash says, pumping his fist in mock triumph.
Emily gasps dramatically. "My own parents! Betrayed by blood!" She clutches her chest. "Twenty-seven years of devotion, and you choose an outsider's cookies over mine?"
"Sorry, honey," Mom laughs. "But those little buttons on the snowman were just too perfect."
"I used edible silver dust on the snowflake," Bash admits, looking pleased but slightly embarrassed by the attention.
"So that's what that was?" I raise my eyebrows. "Who even are you?"
