“Probably. I don’t even know what’s in the pantry.”
“Boris keeps it stocked,” Lev says. “But if you need anything special, I’ll get it.”
“Why are you being so nice about this?”
Lev grins. “Because if you’re baking, you’re feeding us. And I fucking love baked goods.”
Despite everything—despite the fear and the anger and the waiting—I almost laugh.
“Okay,” I say. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
I pull out my phone. Not to check for messages. Not to stare at the blank screen.
To make a list.
Flour. Butter. Yeast. Sugar. Vanilla. Chocolate chips. Cinnamon.
The basics. The foundation of everything good I used to make.
My hands are shaking. But not from fear this time.
From something else. Something that feels almost like hope.
“I’m making cinnamon rolls first,” I announce. “The ones Jasper won’t shut up about.”
Lev perks up. “Cinnamon rolls?”
“Homemade. From scratch.”
“I’ve never had homemade cinnamon rolls.”
I stare at him. “Never?”
“Store-bought only. And those aren’t even that good.”
“That’s tragic.”
Dima’s watching me quietly. “You used to bake. Before.”
It’s not a question. He knows somehow.
“Yeah,” I say. “Every weekend. My apartment always smelled like something—cookies, bread, whatever I felt like making.”
“Why did you stop?” Lev asks.
I think about it. Really think about it. “Because I got busy surviving. And then I met Anton, and everything became about staying alive.” I pull out the flour. “I wanted to bake for him. For all of you. But there was never time. It was always the next threat, the next mission, the next thing trying to kill us.”
The memory surfaces anyway—not of baking, but ofplanning to.
Anton in the kitchen one morning. Me making eggs. Him watching me like I was doing something fascinating instead of just cracking eggs into a pan.
“You do this well,”he’d said.
“Cooking? It’s just eggs.”
“No. Creating things. Making something out of nothing.”
I’d laughed. Told him I used to bake. That my cinnamon rolls were legendary. That someday, when things calmed down, I’d make them for him.
