We lay there in the quiet morning light filtering through the curtains.
The next few days passed in easy domesticity.
We baked in the kitchen. Croissants and danish pastries that came out surprisingly well. Michael was meticulous about measurements, reading the recipe like it was a contract he was reviewing.
“You’re very serious about this,” I said, watching him measure flour down to the exact gram.
“Baking is chemistry. Chemistry requires precision.”
“It’s just croissants.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘just’ croissants.” He shot me a look. “These are going to be perfect.”
They were. Flaky and buttery and absolutely delicious. We ate them warm on the balcony, watching the city wake up below us.
“I could get used to this,” I said, licking butter off my fingers.
“To what?”
“This. You. Us. Morning croissants on the balcony.” I leaned against him. “It feels real. More real than anything else has in a long time.”
His arm came around me, pulling me close. He didn’t say anything. Just held me and watched the sunrise.
We read in the library, curled up on opposite ends of the couch with our feet touching in the middle. I’d found a collection of poetry. Michael was working through some business book that looked incredibly dense.
“How can you actually enjoy reading that?” I asked after watching him for ten minutes.
“It’s interesting.”
“It looks painful.”
“Supply chain optimization is fascinating.”
“You’re such a nerd.”
He set down the book and pulled me across the couch into his lap. “You’re very distracting, you know that?”
“Am I?”
“Very.” His mouth found my neck and the book was forgotten.
We made love in the library, in the kitchen, in the shower—everywhere the moment pulled us. Every time felt like discovering something new. Every time left me breathless and wanting more.
By the fourth day, my phone buzzed with a text from Pauline.
Pauline
Lunch tomorrow? I need details and you’ve been ignoring me.
I grinned and texted back.
Claudette
Meet at the mall at noon?
Pauline
Perfect. Wear something cute. We’re shopping after.
