Cal moved into my line of vision. “Something happened. Out there, on the blanket. What is it?”
“Nothing happened.” The lie felt clumsy on my tongue. “Pudding fell asleep on me. That's it.”
“And then you ran inside like the house was on fire.”
“I didn't run. I suggested we work on the soap. Which is what you came here for.” I gestured at the disaster zone with my spatula. “This.”
His jaw tightened. “Is this about what I said? About you making things easier?”
“No.”Yes. Maybe.“Can we just focus on the soap?”
“Rosie.”
The way he said my name made my chest squeeze.
I turned back to the counter, gripping the spatula until my knuckles went white. “There's nothing to talk about. I'm fine. Everything's fine. Let's just figure out if this batch is salvageable or if I need to start over.”
The silence behind me felt heavy.
Finally, he moved. Pulled his phone from his pocket, thumbs moving across the screen. “Let me look up how to fix this.”
Relief flooded through me. “Thank you.”
We worked in careful silence. Cal scrolled through articles while I cleaned the worst of the mess. Every accidental brush of shoulders or hands felt like a live wire.
He was being helpful. Kind. Exactly what I needed.
And all I could think about was how his smile had transformed his entire face when Pudding chose me. How his voice had gone rough when he said I made things easier. How he'd dropped everything to drive out here because I'd mentioned lye in a phone call.
Aaron had never done that. Had never rushed to help when I needed him. Had certainly never looked at me the way Cal had on that blanket.
Don't compare them.
But I couldn't help it. Because standing in this kitchen with Cal, watching him work carefully, I realized something that made my chest ache.
This was what it felt like to be seen.
Not the version of me someone wanted me to be. Just... me. Messy and overwhelmed and trying so hard it hurt.
And I had absolutely no idea what to do with that.
ChapterTwelve
Callum
The soap had takenthree hours to salvage.
Three hours of melting, stirring, and starting over when the temperature got too high. Rosie had relaxed somewhere around hour two, when she'd stopped jumping every time I handed her something.
Now we stood at the kitchen island, carefully ladling the pale, creamy mixture into rectangular molds. The soap smelled like honey and lavender, sweet and clean.
“There.” Rosie smoothed the top of the last mold with a spatula. “That's all of it.”
I wiped my hands on the dish towel, studying our work. Six neat rows of soap cooling on the counter. But something felt... off.
“They look good,” I said.
“They do.” She stepped back, surveying the molds with satisfaction. “Much better than my first attempt.”
