She watches me with an expression I can’t completely read—something soft, tangled, hopeful, and scared all at once.
Then she swallows hard, clears her throat, and forces a smile.
“Okay, firefighter. Let me show you how to make some gingerbread men.”
So she does.
Side by side.
Shoulders brushing.
Hands bumping.
Flour on her cheek.
A streak of vanilla on my forearm.
An entire symphony of unsaid things crackling between us like wood in a fireplace.
If I’m not careful, every spark in this room is gonna set something ablaze.
And this time, I’m not sure I’ll put it out.
The timer chirps.
Emmy slips on her oven mitts and pulls the first sheet of chocolate chip cookies out. The warm scent of butter and chocolate fills the borrowed kitchen—but beneath it, threaded through like a memory—there’s something deeper. Cozier. Almost nostalgic.
She freezes.
“Hayes,” she whispers, staring at the tray. “Why do they smell like?—”
She cuts herself off, blinking like she’s trying to place it.
I swallow hard and offer her my most innocent shrug. “Like cookies?”
But she’s not paying attention to me anymore.
She sets the tray on the cooling rack, leans in, closes her eyes, and inhales. Slow. Intentional. Almost reverent.
“You added something. I just know it.”
Emmy doesn’t even wait for them to cool before she picks up a cookie—too soon, too hot—and breaks it open. Steam curls out. She brings half to her lips, blows on it then tastes it.
“Oh my gosh.” Her voice cracks, soft and startled. “Hayes… I’ve been missing that in the recipe all these years.” She opens her eyes, glassy and shining. “This is it.”
The world around us disappears—no clattering pans, no industrial hum of the walk-in fridge, no town outside the fogged windows. Just us. Her. This unguarded moment.
Her lashes flutter.
“What did you do?” she asks, stunned, breathless. “It tastes like—like Christmas at Pappy’s house. Like those mornings he used to wake us up before dawn to make pancakes and he’d sneak me the first bite before everyone else came downstairs.”She presses a hand to her chest, overwhelmed. “I haven’t tasted that in… God. I don’t even know how long.”
The look on her face nearly levels me. I didn’t expect this. I thought maybe she’d notice something different. I wasn’t prepared forthis—for her remembering something so tender it hurts to watch.
I reach for the back of my neck, buying time. “Just followed the recipe,” I lie gently.
In my defense, I did followarecipe, just not the one Emmy’s been using.
She shakes her head instantly. “No. No, I know my recipe inside and out. You changed something.”
