Olivia decided to bake. She desperately needed something to do that wasn't holding onto pain.
She rummaged through the fridge and the pantry. She found a basket of fresh apricots, heavy cream, cold butter, and a jar of raw honey. She stepped out to Leo’s small greenhouse attached to the back patio and clipped a few sprigs of freshthyme. She decided to try an apricot tart with honey, sliced almonds, and a hint of thyme.
The choice was purely instinctive. She hadn't planned a recipe. It was simply Olivia reaching out for her own soul through the ingredients.
She washed the apricots carefully. She measured the flour, cut the cold butter into cubes, added ice water, and pressed the dough together with practiced ease. She began slicing the fruit into paper-thin crescents. The work was wonderfully tactile. The motions were so deeply ingrained that her body remembered the rhythm before her mind even had to think about it.
As she sliced the last apricot, she felt a shiver move down her spine.
She stopped chopping and turned around.
Leo was standing in the doorway, watching her.
He didn't speak at first. His expression was completely open, entirely unguarded in a way that made Olivia’s chest ache. There was profound relief in his icy blue eyes, tangled with an emotion so deep he seemed to be fighting to keep it contained.
A slow smile broke across his face, but he had to swallow hard before he finally spoke. "I don't think I have ever been so happy to see you cooking as I am today."
Olivia gave him a small, sad smile. She set the knife down. "I'm sorry, Leo."
"For what?"
"For all of this," she murmured, gesturing vaguely to the kitchen and herself. "For being here. For bringing my broken life to your door. For taking up your space and dragging you into a mess that just seems to be getting worse." She wiped her flour-dusted hands on a towel. "I'm going to start looking for an apartment tomorrow. I need to find a place to live."
Leo crossed the kitchen instantly. "Don't even think about it."
"Leo, I can't stay—"
"You can stay as long as you need to," Leo said firmly, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. He glanced down at the sliced fruit. "Especially if you are going to keep baking."
The humor was gentle, not forced, and despite the heavy ache in her chest, Olivia smiled a little.
She turned back to the cutting board. Leo stepped up beside her. "Let me help."
Olivia stopped him with a floury hand. She pointed to the wooden stool on the opposite side of the granite island. "Sit."
Leo raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"I need to do this alone," Olivia explained softly.
This was the very first thing she had done in over two weeks that felt like it truly belonged to her. She needed to prove to herself that she could finish it with her own two hands.
Leo understood. He didn't argue. He walked around the island and sat on the stool.
He watched her work. His attention felt warm, protective, and heavily emotional. Olivia felt the weight of his gaze, but she was too focused on the tactile process to fully examine what it meant. She got lost in the rhythm of the baking. She arranged the thin apricot slices in a perfect, overlapping spiral. She brushed the top with a warm honey syrup, sprinkled the sliced almonds, and scattered the tiny thyme leaves over the fruit. She crimped the edges of the buttery crust with her thumbs.
For thirty beautiful, uninterrupted minutes, her mind stopped replaying the bedroom. There was only the tart. Only the knife. Only the fruit. Only the oven waiting.
It felt like a small, vital rescue.
When she finished assembling the tart, Leo stood up to help. He opened the heavy oven door and carefully took the pan from her hands when she offered it. The simple, coordinated action vividly recalled all the times they had spent working together in her bakery, but this time, the emotional weight between them was entirely different.
Leo closed the oven door. He turned around, and they looked at each other.
The air in the kitchen felt suddenly charged.
Olivia took a breath. "I am going to find a lawyer, Leo. I'm going to start the divorce proceedings."
The words came out plainly. She had spent the last two weeks grieving, hiding, starving, and avoiding the world. But right now, standing in the kitchen, she knew one thing with absolute certainty: she could never, ever go back to James.
