Not because my brain is running too fast and I need my hands busy. Or because the anxiety has climbed past manageable and I need something to control. Today I just… want to. Because the morning is slow and golden, the kitchen smells like coffee and I want to make something good.
It takes me a moment to recognize the difference.
I lie there between the warmth of Malcolm on one side and Rhys on the other and let myself feel it—this unfamiliar lightness. The ease of a morning that isn't carrying anything heavier than itself. Eventually I get up and go downstairs to start pulling things out of the pantry.
Finn finds me twenty minutes later, his hair going in four directions, glasses slightly crooked.
"Are you stress-baking?" he asks immediately.
"No."
He looks at me with professional suspicion.
"I just want to bake," I say. "I like baking. Can I like baking without it being a symptom?"
He considers this. "Probably." He reaches past me for the coffee. "What are we making?"
"Banana bread. And maybe cookies if we have enough butter."
"We have enough butter. I bought three pounds at the grocery store because someone kept putting things in the cart and it required strategic restocking."
"That wasn't me."
"I know it wasn't you." He pours his coffee and leans against the counter like he intends to be helpful, which with Finn means he intends to be present and engaged, but only occasionally useful.
Malcolm comes down next, shirtless—what else is new—and already looking at the ingredients on the counter with an expression that means he's about to offer to help.
"You can help if you follow instructions," I say.
"I always follow instructions."
"You don't."
"I follow the spirit of instructions."
"That's not the same thing."
He grins and washes his hands.
Alex comes in while I'm measuring flour, takes one look at the operation, and starts making himself useful without being asked. He’s pulling out the mixing bowls I haven't gotten to yet, checking that we have vanilla, finding the loaf pan in the back of the cabinet where it's been hiding.
I notice he doesn't try to take over. He just fills in the gaps.
I like that about him.
Then Rhys appears in the doorway.
He takes up most of it. He stands there looking at the baking operation. Flour already on the counter, bananas being mashed, Malcolm failing to correctly fold something despite very clear instructions. Then he looks at me with a question in his expression.
"Come help," I say.
He comes in.
The kitchen is not designed for a man of Rhys's dimensions to participate in baking. This becomes apparent almost immediately. He reaches across me for the measuring cups and his elbow catches the flour container sending a small cloud across the counter. He freezes. Looks at the flour. Then at me.
"It's fine," I say.
He reaches for something else to help and bumps the bowl of mashed bananas with his forearm. The bowl slides six inches to the left. He catches it before it goes off the counter entirely.
