Marie wipes at her cheeks, looking between us. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have... I didn't think through what it would feel like. For you."
"No. You didn't."
It's not forgiveness. It's not not-forgiveness.
She nods, accepting the faint rebuke like a deserved bruise, and slips out of the kitchen, shoulders small.
I stand there with flour on my hands and sugar under my nails and feel hollow.
Drake moves closer, reaching like he wants to pull me in. I flinch back a step without meaning to.
"Don't. If you hug me now, I'll fall apart."
Eli's hand squeezes my shoulder again. "Maybe that wouldn't be the worst thing."
"I have to frost the brownies. Card night. People are expecting sugar, remember?"
It's easier to cling to motion than emotion.
Ragon watches me for a long moment, then nods. "We'll run interference out there. You take your time."
They leave me to it.
Alone in the kitchen, with the oven humming and the scent of chocolate thick in the air, I press my palms to the counter and bow my head.
Baking used to be the thing that made me feel anchored.
Now even that feels like contested territory.
I pick up the spatula. The frosting is smooth and glossy, ready to spread.
My hands shake as I move it back and forth over the brownies. The pattern I make is neat, even.
It's the only thing in my life right now that is.
Chapter 8
The next real crack shows up in my pantry.
Not a metaphorical crack. An actual, physical rearrangement of my carefully organized shelves that I discover on a Tuesday morning when I go to grab flour for pancakes.
Everything is... different.
The spices are alphabetized now instead of grouped by use. The baking supplies have been consolidated to one shelf instead of spread across two. Someone—and I know exactly who—has added little labels. Neat, printed labels with Marie's looping handwriting underneath:All-Purpose Flour. Brown Sugar. Vanilla Extract.
I stand there with the fridge door still open behind me, cold air spilling across my ankles, staring at my pantry like it's a crime scene.
It's not wrong, exactly. It's more organized, technically. Efficient.
It's just not mine anymore.
"Oh good, you found it!"
Marie's voice makes me jump. I turn to find her in the doorway, hair still damp from a shower, wearing one ofDrake's old hospital shirts like a dress. She looks pleased with herself.
"I reorganized yesterday while you were napping," she says brightly. "It was kind of a mess, no offense. I figured it would help everyone if things were easier to find. The guys are always asking me where stuff is, so I thought—well, labels just make sense, right?"
The guys are always asking her.
