Then he reaches for the cocoa powder. "How much?"
"What?"
"How much cocoa powder?"
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." He opens the container. "How much?"
"Half a cup."
He measures it out, then dumps it in the bowl.
We work in silence. He follows my lead and hands me things before I ask, moving around the kitchen like he belongs there.
"Did you used to bake?" I ask.
"No. You know I'm bad at cooking."
"Then how are you so good at this?"
"I'm good at following instructions."
I crack eggs into the bowl. "Most people aren't."
"Most people overthink it. I'm bad when I try to wing it."
He's right. There's something methodical about how he works. Precise. No wasted movement.
We get the batter into the pan, slide it into the oven and set the timer.
Alex leans against the counter. "What were you thinking about?"
"What?"
"Before you came down here."
I look away. "Nothing."
"Vee."
He sounds gentle but firm.
"Ragon," I admit. "I was thinking about Ragon."
He doesn't say anything, just waits.
"Something he said to me once. About not forgetting me. About not making me small." I swallow. "And then he did both anyway."
Alex is quiet.
"He failed you," he says.
"Yeah."
"That's on him. Not you."
"I know." I do know. Logically. "But knowing it and feeling it are different."
