And I had the start of something good—something mine.
I set the grocery bags on the counter, my heart fluttering with a chaotic mix of nerves and excitement. This was it—my first attempt at something beyond nuking frozen dumplings and calling it a meal. I was making a cake. A real cake. Like, eggs and flour and everything. It felt like a bold declaration of independence, or at least the prelude to a very entertaining disaster.
I rifled through the bags, pulling out flour, sugar, eggs, and a bunch of other things that looked vaguely familiar from Pinterest videos. I turned on the oven and watched the display light up like I was summoning a fire-breathing dragon to assist me in my domestic quest.
Vanilla scented the air as I stirred the ingredients, my confidence growing with every messy swirl of the spoon. A few generous handfuls of chocolate chips tumbled in, because when in doubt, add chocolate. The batter looked promising—lumpy, but hopeful. I poured it into the pan, said a quick prayer to the baking gods, and slid it into the oven like a pro.
Then came the waiting. I paced. I peeked through the oven window like it held the secrets of the universe. What if it burned? What if it sunk in the middle? My anxiety pinged between those two thoughts like a pinball machine. But then—magic.
The scent of warm cake wrapped around me like a hug. I crouched to watch it rise, perfectly golden and fluffy. A miracle. Actual edible joy. I might’ve gasped. Just a little.
Once it cooled, I flipped it out of the pan and onto a rack without incident (my inner child did a victory dance). I grabbed my phone and snapped a picture; the sun catching the golden edges like I’d summoned a star into my kitchen.
Look what I made! Not burnt!
His reply came seconds later:
Impressive. Save me a slice.
Cue blush. My whole face warmed as I stared at the screen. It wasn’t just the cake—it was him, reacting to something I made. Wanting a piece of it. Wanting a piece of this life I was learning to build. It felt… special.
I leaned back against the counter, grinning like an idiot. Maybe this was what healing looked like. A hoodie two sizes too big, chocolate chip cake, and a guy who actually saw me. Not just as something to possess—but someone worth showing up for.
I couldn’t help myself—I grabbed a fork and cut into the cake, the warmth still rising in soft curls of steam. It smelled amazing, like victory and vanilla and just a hint of overconfidence. I took a bite, already imagining the pride I’d feel when Nikolai texted back with something like wife me.
But then…
Oh no.
The sweetness was there, sure, but the texture? Nope. Dense. Like a chocolate brick in disguise. My stomach flipped—not in a good way.
I leaned over the counter, eyes wide in betrayal. What even was that?
How did I mess up cake? Cake! It was supposed to be the easy thing, the beginner’s win. I glanced at the clock and felt my heart sink. Hours. I’d spent actual hours on this. The sun had moved on without me, leaving the kitchen awash in lazy afternoon light and the smell of failed ambition.
“All right, Mina,” I muttered, dragging a hand down my face. “Shower. Regroup.”
I left the fork in the battlefield and shuffled to the bathroom, peeling off disappointment with every step. The moment water hit my face, clarity returned in droplets. The mirror greeted me with a wild-haired reflection and tired eyes, but I met her with a steady nod. The cake flopped. So what? I was still here. Still standing. And the day? Still mine.
The hot water poured over me like a much-needed reset button, steam curling around my shoulders as I tilted my head back and let it wash away the day. The scent of Nikolai’s body wash—fresh, woodsy, entirely him—lingered in the air, and I couldn’t help but smile as I lathered up. It felt indulgent, comforting, like I was borrowing a little piece of him while he was away. As the water warmed my skin and eased the tightness in my muscles, I closed my eyes and let myself breathe, slow and deep, until the world felt just a little softer again.
I stood in front of the mirror, steam still curling around the edges of the glass like some dreamy movie montage moment. The shower had done its job—washed away the chocolate-chip-flour-fueled chaos of my baking adventure and the last stubborn flecks of homesickness I hadn’t wanted to name. Now? Now came the big leagues.
Getting dressed.
I wrapped the towel tighter around myself and stared at my reflection. My cheeks were a little pink from the heat, and my hair had taken on its usual post-shower waves—soft and rebellious at the same time.
“Okay, Mina,” I whispered to myself, drawing courage from somewhere deep in my squishy center. “You are a functioning, adorable adult. You are going to hang out with other humans. You are not going to say anything too weird. Probably.”
I pulled on my favorite jeans—snug enough to feel cute, but forgiving enough to let me eat chips without regrets—and paired them with a slouchy off-the-shoulder sweater that made me feel just the right kind of effortlessly put together. Tossed my hair into a messy bun, dabbed on a little mascara and lip gloss, and stared at myself again.
Huh. Not bad. Kinda glowy. Like the kind of girl who bakes cakes and watches hockey and texts her boyfriend. Wait—was he my boyfriend? Don’t spiral, Mina.
“Mikel never let me do this,” I murmured, the thought slipping in like an unwelcome draft. He’d kept me in the background, like I was some accessory that didn’t match the team vibe. But Nikolai? He wanted me there. In his life. Wearing his hoodie. Smelling like his shampoo. (Which, by the way, was totally elite.)
I smiled at my reflection—not a huge grin, just a soft, steady one. A “we’re doing this” smile. A “this is a new chapter” smile. I grabbed my crossbody bag, stuffed in some lip balm, and texted Paige: On my way. Can’t wait!
As I stepped into my sneakers and headed out the door, heart fluttering but brave anyway, I whispered to myself, “Let’s make this your normal.”
