She didn’t break. She just breathed. And for the first time in a long time, the breath didn’t hurt.
The children began cutting shapes — stars, snowmen,hearts, “a biscuit shaped like Bran,” (which absolutely did not look like Bran but Erin praised it anyway).
They placed the shapes onto the baking sheet, carefully and lovingly.
No one fought over cutters.
No one threw flour.
No one licked the entire bowl.
It was… peaceful.
Alex brushed against Erin again. “This feels nice.”
“It does,” Erin said quietly.
“Maybe later,” Alex whispered, “we can find another quiet moment.”
Heat curled through Erin’s stomach, low and slow.
“Yeah,” Erin murmured. “I’d like that.”
The cookies went into the oven. The children pressed their faces against the glass, their reflections hazy and warm in the glow.
Mrs. MacLeod graciously conceded the kitchen to them but hovered in the corner with folded arms, pretending she wasn’t invested.
Erin glanced at Alex.
Alex glanced back.
She mouthed,Thank you.
Erin mouthed,For what?
Alex touched her wrist lightly.For being mine.
Erin felt her breath catch. She felt Alex’s touch flood her whole body with love and desire.
Before she could respond, Vic’s distant voice echoed down the corridor:
“WHERE IS THE FUCKING CENTREPIECE? SOMEONE FIND ME A SHOVEL AND— NO NOT FOR THE TURKEY?—”
Julia’s more exasperated voice followed: “Victoria, I swear to God?—”
Erin leaned toward Alex and whispered, deadpan, “I’m never letting her plan our summer holiday.”
Alex burst out laughing, leaning into her shoulder.
The children announced, “THE COOKIES ARE BROWNING!” as if reporting an incoming air raid, and everyone sprang into action.
Erin opened the oven carefully, warm air washing over her face. The cookies were perfect — golden, soft at the centre, crisp at the edges.
The kids cheered.
Mrs. MacLeod actually clapped.
And Erin thought:Maybe things really are turning around.
