Mere cleared her throat. "Do you want us to meet him? Really?"
I put both hands flat on the table. "I want you to be happy. If that means meeting him, then yes. If not, we'll keep going as we always have. I promise I'm not pushing either way."
She nodded, eyes drifting to the window. The rain had finally stopped for good. A few stars peeked through, brighter now.
Around the rim of her mug, Fifi stared me down. "What about the bakery? Is he going to try to bribe us with cinnamon rolls or something?"
I cracked a smile. "Probably. He was desperate for news about you. He wanted to make up for lost time, but he didn't want to scare you. He said he'd wait as long as it took."
Fifi squinted, still not trusting, but less prickly than before. "I don't want to get my hopes up."
"You don't have to," I told her. "You can take all the time you need."
Mere took another long look at the cocoa. She traced a finger across the wood grain of the old table, like she could read the future there.
"We'll think about it," she said quietly. "We'll, like, talk it over. Just us."
"That's fine," I said, and my throat almost closed up again. "Whenever you're ready."
Eventually, the mugs ran dry, and Mere shouldered Fifi up the stairs, the dog traipsing after. I tried to organize the kitchen, but my mind wouldn't settle.
I knew how this would go. Mere would need time to process. She'd hole up with Fifi and talk it to death, or let it simmer until their next weird mood struck. If Mere said they'd think about it, that was as close to yes as I'd get tonight.
Chance
The dough was fightingback today. Every shove of my hands into the dough made my mind jump to how it had felt holding her yesterday, how the heat of her body had shot straight up my arms. I pressed my fists into it, rolling and folding with enough force to make the whole counter groan. The air in the Sweet Dragon Bakery was thick with vanilla and cinnamon, flour blurring the wood grain and sticking in little crescents to my arms. I didn't even bother wiping sweat from my forehead. My shirt was already a mess, and nobody cared how I looked if the bread was good.
The mixer whirred in the background. For one luxurious second, I had the kitchen to myself, the onlysoundtrack being the slap of dough and the rhythmic vent fan above the ovens.
That lasted about as long as you'd expect.
The side door rattled open, and my mother swept in, arms loaded with groceries and a look that said she already regretted being here. She moved with the kind of grace that always made me think she had invisible rails under her shoes. She never wasted a step, even while balancing eggs, oranges, and some overpriced European butter in a single canvas bag. Her dark hair was up, not a strand out of place, and her coat probably cost more than the bakery's mixer. Beneath all that was the faintest shimmer in her eyes. Gold, if they caught the light right.
I stiffened up before she even said a word. My hands kept kneading, but the rhythm faltered. Caden bristled under my skin, tail twitching.
We were both angry.
"Hello, darling." Mom made it sound like she'd just dropped in from some diplomatic event instead of a six-minute drive from the Meyer house. She set the groceries down with surgical precision, lining each carton parallel to the countertop edge.
"Morning," I grunted. If I looked up, I'd probably snap, so I focused on the dough. "You're early."
"I had an errand in town." She started pulling itemsfrom the bags, arranging them in a neat row. Eggs, cream, oranges, a jar of fancy honey. "Figured I'd save you the trouble of running errands. This bakery survives on luxury ingredients, doesn't it? Maeve told me that years ago."
She didn't look at me once. Just combed through the groceries and tucked them away. Every movement was measured. Too measured.
The dough was ready to rest. I dusted my palms on my apron. "Thanks. You didn't have to, but thanks."
She made a little hmm sound.
The only thing louder than my heartbeat was her phone. It pinged the second she set it on the counter and kept going, notification after notification, as she fussed with the honey and butter.
I tried to ignore it, but the racket was irritating.
Finally, I broke. "You gonna take that, Mom? Or is it just gonna serenade us all the time you're here?"
Her jaw twitched. "It's nothing urgent."
"Then why not turn it off?" I pressed, a little sharper than I meant.
