“Good,” Julian says. “Because Tess would hate that.”
The mention of her name lands heavy but clean.
Then, because my brain apparently hates peace, I stand.
“I want to try something,” I say.
Zane squints. “Why do I feel threatened?”
I walk into the kitchen and pull out a bag of flour I bought earlier and forgot about. It sits pristine on the counter, unopened, like it’s judging me.
Julian stares. “What is happening?”
“I’m making bread,” I say.
Zane laughs. “Absolutely not.”
“I want to try teaching,” I say, quieter. “Like she did.”
Julian folds his arms. “You are not emotionally stable enough for yeast.”
“Please,” I say, and hate how much I mean it.
They exchange a look.
Zane sighs. “If this ends in a fire, I’m filming.”
We stand around the island. I dump flour onto the counter. It goes everywhere.
Julian jumps back. “Oh my God.”
“Relax,” I say. “It’s supposed to.”
“It’s absolutely not,” Julian argues.
I try to explain hydration ratios. I mess it up. Zane asks if yeast is alive. Julian insists the dough is staring at him.
I over knead.
Then under knead.
Then, panic and add more flour, which Tess would absolutely scold me for.
The dough is wrong. Obviously wrong.
Julian pokes it. “This feels like stress.”
“It needs time,” I say, breathless. “Rest.”
Zane raises an eyebrow. “You’re projecting.”
We wait.
The dough barely rises.
Julian pats my shoulder. “You tried.”
“I didn’t listen,” I say quietly. “I rushed.”
