But I’ve seen him bleed. Seen him hurt. Seen him almost die in my arms.
So forgive me if I don’t worship at the altar of his reputation.
The door swings open. Jasper walks in, looking impeccable as always. Designer jeans. Silk shirt. Sunglasses perched on his head, even though we’re indoors.
“I smell cinnamon,” he announces. “Did you actually—?” He stops. Stares at the kitchen. At me covered in flour. At the rising dough. “You’re baking.”
“I’m baking.”
“Holy shit. You’re actually baking.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised. I’m impressed.” He sets down his bag—probably full of fabric samples or whatever designers carry around—and moves closer. “These are the ones, aren’t they? The legendary cinnamon rolls?”
“They’re just cinnamon rolls, Jas.”
“Lies. These are transcendent. These are life-changing. These are—”
“Jasper.”
“What? I’m expressing enthusiasm.”
Lev snorts. “Is he always like this?”
“Always,” I confirm.
“I like him.”
“Everyone does,” Jasper says. “It’s a gift and a curse.”
I roll the dough into a log. Start slicing. The motion is meditative. Familiar. Mine.
And for the first time in three days, my brain goes quiet.
Not thinking about Anton. Not checking my phone. Not counting hours.
Just… this.
Creating something good with my hands.
Maybe Jasper was right.
Maybe I do need something that’s just mine.
And maybe—just maybe—I’m going to be okay.
Even if he doesn’t call.
Even if I have to wait the full two weeks.
Even if everything’s uncertain and terrifying and out of my control.
I’ll be okay.
Because I have to be.
For me. For the baby. For Grandma. For the life I’m building, even when I’m scared.
