The stairs creak under my weight. This house is over a hundred years old. Everything creaks. I've learned to tune it out, the same way I've learned to tune out the constant background noise of pack life. The arguments over who left the milk out. The laughter during movie nights. The way my brothers can drive me crazy and keep me sane in equal measure.
Halfway down the stairs, I smell it.
Sugar. Butter. Vanilla. Chocolate.
Someone is baking.
At three in the morning.
I follow my nose to the kitchen and stop dead in the doorway.
Jessica is standing at the counter, her back to me, wearing my mom’s old apron over the henley she borrowed from Carlos. The apron is faded blue with white polka dots, stained with decades of cooking experiments and holiday disasters. It ties at the waist, emphasizing the curve of her hips, the dip of her lower back.
Her blonde hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, loose strands escaping to curl against the nape of her neck, catching the light. Her feet are bare, pale against the dark tile, toes curling against the cold floor.
She's elbow-deep in cookie dough.
And she's crying.
I can tell by the way her shoulders shake. The small, hiccupping sounds she's trying to muffle. The way she keeps wiping her face with the back of her wrist, leaving smears of flour across her cheeks.
Something in my chest cracks open.
"Jess."
She whirls around, eyes wide, cookie dough flying from her fingers. A glob lands on the floor between us.
"Sergio!" Her voice is thick with tears, rough around the edges. "I'm sorry, I couldn't sleep, and I found the flour in thepantry, and I thought maybe if I just kept my hands busy I could stop thinking and I know it's your kitchen and I should have asked but..."
"You don't have to apologize." I step into the kitchen, keeping my movements slow. "This is your home now. You can bake at whatever hour you want."
"It's not my home." She turns back to the counter, shoulders hunching inward like she's trying to make herself smaller. "I should be contributing. Paying rent. Not just taking up space and eating your food and—"
"Stop." I move closer. The kitchen is warm from the preheating oven, overhead light casting everything in soft gold. The mixer is out on the counter, along with three different bags of chocolate chips and a cookbook that belonged to my grandmother, the pages yellowed and stained. "What are you making?"
"Chocolate chip cookies." She sniffles, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "Triple chocolate. Regular chips, white chocolate chips, and cocoa powder in the dough. Because apparently regular chocolate isn't aggressive enough for my current emotional state."
"That's a lot of chocolate."
"I'm feeling a lot of feelings."
I lean against the counter beside her. Tear tracks on her cheeks. Redness around her hazel eyes. Her bottom lip is swollen from where she's been biting it, probably for hours.
She's beautiful.
Even now, covered in flour, crying into cookie dough at three in the morning, wearing a borrowed shirt and a vintage apron. She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
And I'm completely screwed.
"Want to talk about it?" I ask quietly.
"Not particularly."
"Okay."
I don't push. I've learned over the years that Jessica needs space to process. Needs time to find her words. If I push, she'll retreat behind walls I can't break through. If I wait, she'll come to me when she's ready.
So I wait.
