“So you stress-bake. Cute,” I say, unable to help myself.
“Sometimes I build things,” he replies. “But this is quieter, and I figured you didn’t want me hammering at midnight.”
I lean against the counter, watching him with mild fascination. It’s strange seeing someone like Asher—broad shoulders, calloused hands, the quiet intensity that all butscreamsdangerous—making cookies like he’s auditioning for a baking show.
“You’re good at this,” I remark, nodding at the tray already lined with dough. “Your mom teach you?”
His hands pause for a moment. “No. Olive did. She’s… well, she’s not family by blood, but she raised me.”
The mention of this person stirs something curious in me. “Where were your parents?” I ask gently.
His hands resume their work, and he doesn’t look at me. “They died when I was a kid,” he says.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but no words come.
“I was eight,” he continues flatly, like he’s explaining someone else’s life. “Home invasion. I was in the closet hiding like they told me to. Heard everything.”
My stomach twists. “Asher, I’m?—”
“Don’t,” he says, glancing up at me. His expression isn’t cold, but there’s a quiet finality to his tone. “It was a long time ago. Olive made sure I had a home and a chance to grow up. That’s more than a lot of kids get.”
The image of Asher as a frightened child hiding in a closet is hard to reconcile with the confident, composed man standing in front of me.
“Is that why you…” I trail off, gesturing vaguely toward him. “Why you do this? Protect people?”
He nods once, placing the baking sheet in the oven. “Something like that. I started out in intelligence.”
“Military?” I ask, even though I’m already sure of the answer.
“Intelligence wing,” he confirms, leaning against the counter. “Worked ops, gathering intel, analyzing threats. It wasn’t easy. No physical scars, but I’ve seen my share of shit. Let’s just say… I know what it’s like to have your life ripped apart by someoneelse’s choices. But it stays with you. You learn to live with it, or it swallows you whole.”
“That must’ve been hard.”
“It was,” he admits quietly. “Olive did her best. She’s the reason I know my way around a kitchen. Said every kid should know how to make cookies, no matter what’s going on in their life.”
I glance at the oven, watching the faint glow of the light inside. “And now you’re here, baking cookies at midnight for two little girls you just met.”
A faint smile tugs at his lips. “Life’s funny like that.”
We fall into a companionable silence, the hum of the oven filling the room. I should go back to bed, try to get some sleep, but I don’t move.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, meeting his gaze. “For being here. For helping.”
He shrugs, but his smile softens. “It’s what I signed up for.” Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he adds, “Besides, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t burn down the house while stress-cooking.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s a smile on my face now, too.
Asher leans back against the counter, arms crossed, his posture deceptively relaxed. But his eyes—those sharp, unrelenting eyes—stay locked on me. There’s something about the way he looks at me, like he’s trying to figure me out, to piece together parts of me I didn’t even know were missing.
“Do you bake often?” I ask, desperate to fill the silence. My voice wavers, to my embarrassment.
He smirks a little, giving the faintest curve of his lips, but there’s no humor in it. “Not really. Only when I need a distraction.”
I swallow hard, unsure if he’s talking about tonight or something bigger.
“The kids will definitely love the cookies,” I say.
“It’s not just for them,” Asher says.
