The red numbers on my phone read 2:17 a.m., and I know sleep won’t come back. It never does anymore, especially after last night with Elijah.
My body still remembers. The way his hands felt on my skin, reverent and hungry.
The French words he whispered against my throat, beautiful sounds I didn’t understand but felt in my bones. The way he looked at me afterward, like I was something precious he’d been searching for his entire life.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the flood of memories. His mouth on mine.
His fingers threading through my hair. The way he said my name like a prayer and a curse wrapped together.
Stop.
I throw off the covers and pad barefoot to my tiny kitchen, the floorboards cold beneath my feet. My hands shake as I pull out the mixing bowl Grandma Rose gave me years ago, the ceramic worn smooth from decades of use.
Flour. Sugar. Butter. Cinnamon.
The ingredients that have always saved me when my thoughts spiral too dark, too fast.
Stress-baking is my therapy, learned at Grandma Rose’s elbow when I was barely tall enough to reach the counter.When life gets hard, baby girl, you make something sweet.
Her voice echoes in my memory as I measure flour with practiced precision, the repetitive motion already beginning to quiet my racing mind.
I work the dough for cinnamon rolls, kneading with the heels of my hands, pushing and folding until the texture transforms from rough to silky.
The apartment fills with the scent of yeast and possibility. For these few hours before dawn, I’m not a thief working off her debt. I’m not the girl who stole from God’s collection plate. I’m just someone creating something beautiful from simple ingredients.
The dough rises while I make the filling, mixing butter and brown sugar and cinnamon until it smells like every Sunday morning of my childhood. I roll the dough into a rectangle, spread the filling with careful strokes, then roll it tight and slice it into perfect spirals. They go into the pan like little promises, each one a small act of redemption.
While they bake, I lean against the counter and let myself remember more of last night.
The way Elijah’s crystalline blue eyes darkened when he looked at me.
How his lean body felt pressed against mine, all controlled strength and barely restrained need.
The sounds he made when I touched him, like I was unraveling him piece by piece.
My phone buzzes on the counter, making me jump. A text from the hospital about Grandma Rose’s medication schedule. I read it twice, my chest tight with gratitude that she’s still here, still fighting. The money I stole paid for that. Adrian’s mercy gave me the chance to save her.
And now I’m sleeping with three men of God.
The timer dings, saving me from that spiral. I pull the rolls from the oven, golden and perfect, and frost them while they’re still warm.Cream cheese icing melts into every crevice, sweet and tangy and exactly right.
I eat one standing at the counter, letting the flavors ground me in the present moment.
By the time the sun rises, I’ve made two dozen cinnamon rolls and a decision.
I’ll bring them to St. Michael’s as a thank-you.
For Adrian’s mercy. For Marcus’s kindness. For Elijah’s…everything.
I pack them carefully in a container, write a simple note—Thank you for everything—and leave them in the parish hall kitchen before my early shift at the diner. I don’t wait to see anyone’s reaction. I’m too much of a coward for that.
The diner shift drags endlessly. I pour coffee, take orders, and smile at customers while my mind replays last night on an endless loop.
Elijah’s hands.
His mouth.
The way he looked at me like I was salvation and damnation wrapped in one package.
