Something in my chest unclenches.
We make another batch—these with cardamom and sea salt. I show Finn how to tell when the dough is right by feel. He's a quick study, and when he gets it right, he grins like a kid.
"You're good at this," I tell him.
"Teaching?"
"Listening. Most people don't ask why the dough feels wrong. They just blame the oven."
"Most people don't have your patience."
If only he knew.
We clean up afterward, Alex and Malcolm insisting on doing dishes while I sit on a stool and eat another cookie.
"Come back any time," Alex says as I gather my notebook. "Seriously. You brighten the place up."
"Make pie next time," Malcolm adds.
"Don't scare her off. Let her finish her cookie before you demand future pastries."
I laugh.
For the first time in a long time, my laughter doesn't feel like a fluke.
Walking back across the shared yard, my chest does a weird, complicated twist.
I don't want to go home.
Not in the dramatic, running-away sense.
Just... I don't want to trade this warm, uncomplicated kitchen for a house where every interaction is threaded through with old hurt and new rules.
By the time I reach our back door, my good mood has curdled into something bittersweet.
The door opens before I touch the handle.
Eli stands there, hair still damp from a shower, T-shirt soft and worn, eyes searching my face. "Hey. How was it?"
"Good. They're nice. Very functional. Finn almost proposed to the mixing bowl, but we talked him down."
He smiles. Then he steps aside, letting me in.
As I cross the threshold, the house's familiar scents close around me—Ragon's smoke and pine, Drake's citrus and scrubs, Marie's sugar-sweet, Eli's tea and linen, Jasper's clean neutrality.
Not bad.
Not unsafe.
Just heavier.
Less simple.
"They asked me to come back. Bake more things."
"You should. If it makes you feel like that." He gestures vaguely at my face.
"Like what?"
