Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
brANDON
T ears glisten on Naomi’s cheeks, catching the soft candlelight and making them look like liquid gold. Her body trembles beneath me, aftershocks rippling through her muscles and the silk sheets clinging to her sweat-dampened skin.
She blinks up at me, her eyes hazy and unfocused in the dim light.
Naomi doesn’t cry. Not like this. I’ve seen her hold it together through board meetings, family dinners, and every Thursday night at Elliot’s. But now…
I dip my head on instinct, my tongue catching the salt of her tears. She gasps, her body tensing beneath mine.
“Don’t.” She turns away, but I catch more tears tracking down her cheeks, glinting in the candlelight.
“Why not?” I follow the wet trail, savoring her shiver. “Scared I’ll see you’re actually human under all that ice?”
“Fuck you.” But her fingers dig into my shoulders, holding me closer even as she tries to push me away.
“Already did, cupcake.” My lips press to her temple, slow and deliberate, savoring the moment. “Quite thoroughly.”
She lets out a strangled sound, caught between laughter and tears. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” My thumb swipes another tear. “You hate that I make you feel.”
“Stop analyzing me.”
“Stop running.”
“I’m literally pinned under you.” Her eyes dart away, avoiding mine. Classic Naomi deflection.
I shift my weight, giving her space to breathe while keeping her caged beneath me. “You know what I mean.”
More tears spill, and fuck if it doesn’t gut me. Naomi Smith, the ice queen herself, crying in my bed.
“I’ve never…” She swallows hard, her throat working. “No one’s ever made me feel like this.”
Her vulnerability, her trust in this moment, it’s humbling. Terrifying. Because I know I could break her if I’m not careful. Hell, I probably will anyway. It’s what I do, even if I don’t want to. Call it a secret messed up superpower of mine.
But right now, with her tears drying on my tongue and her body trembling against mine, all I want is to hold her together. To be the one person who doesn’t let her down.
“Talk to me, cupcake.” I brush her hair back from her face.
“Stop being so…”
“So what?” I roll on my side, gathering her into my arms.
“Gentle.” She spits the word like it’s poison. “I don’t need?—”
“What you need and what you want are two different things, cupcake.” My fingers trail down her spine, feeling each vertebra, each tremor. “Just let me hold you, okay? We don’t need to talk about it.”
“Brandon…”
“Shh.” I tangle my fingers in her hair, anchoring her to me. “Just breathe.”
For once, she listens, her breath slowly evening out as the tension bleeds from her muscles.
Maybe this thing between us is fragile, prone to cracking under the weight of our respective fucked-uppedness. But holding her like this, feeling her heartbeat sync with mine, I’m suddenly certain of one thing.
I’ll do whatever it takes to make this work. For her, I’ll try.
“This is mortifying.” She covers her face with her hands.
“First time for everything.” I nip at her ear. “Though I gotta say, making the ice queen melt? Definitely going on my resume.”
She smacks my chest. “I knew you were going to be an ass about it.”
“An ass who made you come so hard you cried. Speaking of which…” I scoop her up. “…let’s get cleaned up.”
“Brandon!” She squirms in my arms. “Put me down.”
“Nope.” I kick open the bathroom door. “Consider this your five-star post-virginity service.”
She stiffens. “Don’t.”
“Make jokes?” I set her down carefully, keeping one arm around her waist as I turn on the shower, admiring my cum trickling down between her legs. Fuck. Concentrate. “Just let me take care of you.”
“You’re stupid.” She tries to hide her beautiful smile, joining me under the spray, letting me wash her hair, clean her body, and hold her close.
If being stupid means seeing that smile and being allowed to do this, I will be stupid any second of the day.
Three months without her felt like cooking during rush hour. Now Naomi’s back, and I can finally breathe again.
The city hums outside my window, but in here, it’s just her breathing and the whisper of sheets. Moonlight catches her sleeping form, my oversized shirt riding up her thigh to reveal the marks I left earlier. Pride and possessiveness surge through me, but it’s more than that—she trusted me enough to fall apart in my arms and to sleep this deeply.
She shifts closer, hand finding my chest with perfect aim. Even unconscious, she knows exactly where to hit. Not that I’m complaining. She could probably stab me, and I’d thank her for it.
I should sleep, but I keep waiting for her to vanish like smoke. To decide this was all a mistake and bolt before sunrise.
If I win, you have to open a restaurant.
Thank fuck I won that game. Kind of.
Having her here, I call that the real win.
The mattress dips as I reluctantly ease away. She mumbles something, reaching for the warm spot I’ve left behind, hugging my pillow instead.
Kitchen’s dark except for the dim glow of street lights filtering through the windows. Don’t need light for this anyway. I know it by heart, like the scars on my knuckles from years of burns and cuts.
Flour. Yeast. Salt. Water.
The ingredients line up on the counter like old friends I’ve been avoiding. Been what—six months since I last did this? Since before Dad…
Fuck that. Not going there.
My fingers dig into the flour bag, muscle memory taking over. The measuring cup fills with a soft whoosh , white powder clouding the air like snow. The scent hits me—raw, earthy, full of possibility. Mom used to say you could smell if flour was fresh enough for bread.
In warm water, the yeast blooms, releasing that distinct fermented sweetness of Sunday mornings in our old kitchen.
I dump everything in the bowl, the ingredients coming together with a wet slap that echoes in the quiet kitchen. The dough’s sticky against my palms as I turn it onto the counter, the scrape against marble oddly satisfying.
Push, fold, turn. Push, fold, turn.
Each movement releases another knot in my shoulders, and under my hands, the dough transforms, becoming smooth and elastic. My mind empties. No Dad. No Milton Global. No expectations.
Just this. The rhythm of working dough beneath street lights at 4 AM while the woman I lo?—
While Naomi sleeps in my bed.
The dough gives beneath my fingers, accepting whatever force I put into it, kneading it into something better. Doesn’t judge. Doesn’t demand.
“Brandon?” Naomi stands in the kitchen doorway, drowning in my t-shirt, hair mussed from sleep. There’s that subscription I missed.
Her. In my kitchen. Wearing my shirt.
“Hey, cupcake.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Did I wake you?”
She shakes her head, padding closer on bare feet. Her eyes fix on my hands buried in the dough. “That’s not pancakes.”
“Your detective skills are unmatched.” I resume the rhythm. Push, fold, turn.
“So?”
“Bread’s more forgiving than pancakes.”
“Unlike you?” Her hip bumps into the counter beside me.
“I’m plenty forgiving.” The dough folds under my palms. “I let you massacre those pancakes, didn’t I?”
“Massacre is a strong word.” Her finger darts out, stealing a piece of dough. “You ate them.”
I grab her wrist before she can pop it in her mouth. I’d eat everything she makes me. “Raw flour’s not great for you.”
“Neither is standing alone in the dark at 4:30?” Her pulse flutters against my thumb.
“I’m not alone anymore, am I?”
She tugs free, but doesn’t step away. “Want to talk about it?”
“About bread?”
“Brandon.”
My hands halt mid-motion. “My mom used to say kneading bread was cheaper than therapy.” She wasn’t wrong.
“Did you and your mom bake often?”
“Every Sunday.” Mom’s face, with flour on her cheek and that secretive smile when she’d let me sneak cookies, flashes in my mind. “Dad worked late, so we’d take over the kitchen. Make enough bread for the week. We didn’t have much back then. But it was enough.”
She shifts closer, her arm brushing mine. “What happened when he came home?”
“He’d see the mess. Tell her she was spoiling me. That Milton men don’t waste time playing house.”
“That’s not nice.”
A laugh bursts out before I can stop it. “Yeah. It wasn’t. But Elijah got the worse. Dad always took him with him.”
Naomi’s fingers trail across the counter, gathering flour dust. “What would he think about you baking now?”
“He’s dead.”
“Yet here you are, hiding in the dark.”
“I’m not—” I pound the dough against the floured surface. “This isn’t about him.”
“Then why haven’t you cooked since he died?”
Push, fold, turn. “Why haven’t you kept down a meal?” Shit.
“Because…” Her voice is so faint, swallowed by the steady thump of kneading, that for a second, I think I imagined it. “I feel guilty.“
My gaze snaps to her. That’s the first time she actually admits it. “I’m scared. Not exactly of failing but of…”
“Being happy,” she finishes my sentence.
Being happy.
When was the last time I let myself even consider that?
Definitely before Dad died.
“Every time I step into a kitchen, I hear him. This isn’t what I built this family for. You’re throwing away your legacy for a hobby. ”
“And now?”
“Now he’s dead, and I sold my restaurant to be the son he wanted. Real fucking ironic, right?”
“You know what I think?”
“Careful, cupcake. Thinking at this hour’s dangerous.”
She traces patterns in the flour. “I think you’re punishing yourself. Just like?—”
“You?”
“Just like me.”
We’re both so fucked up, aren’t we? Her with her purging, me with this self-imposed exile from everything I love. Both of us thinking if we punish ourselves enough, maybe we’ll deserve… what? Happiness? Redemption?
Her hand reaches out, hesitates, then settles on my forearm, stopping my movements, and I realize I’ve been kneading harder than necessary.
“Show me?” she asks.
“You want to learn bread making in the middle of the night?”
Mom’s voice echoes in my head. Bread is love, Brandon. You don’t just make it, you share it.
“Better than watching you brood.” She mimics my kneading motion. “Besides, I need to expand beyond abstract pancakes.”
I guess as long as I don’t have any kids, I can teach my girlfriend.
“Wash your hands first.” I jerk my chin toward the sink. “Unless you want your first loaf to taste like whatever’s under those nails.”
“My nails are perfectly clean.” Shooting me a look, she moves to the sink. “Unlike someone who’s covered in flour.”
“Up to your elbows. Soap. Like you’re scrubbing in for surgery.”
“Bossy much?”
“In my kitchen? Always.” I dry her hands with a clean towel. “Hands flat on the counter.”
She spreads her fingers on the surface, and I have to bite back a groan at how perfectly she follows instructions. In the kitchen, at least. I move behind her, my chest barely touching her back.
“Like this?” she asks.
“Almost.” I cover her flour-dusted hands with mine, adjusting the position.
The dough yields between our fingers as I guide her through the motions.
“Like this,” I murmur against her ear. “Push from the center, fold it over, quarter turn.”
“Seems like you’re doing all the work.”
“Because you’re fighting it.”
“I’m not fighting anything.” Her shoulders tense against my chest.
“You are trying to control everything.”
She huffs but relaxes slightly. Her hands move more fluidly under mine, following the rhythm I set.
“Better.” I press a kiss to her neck. “See how it’s getting smoother? That’s what happens when you trust the process. Let the dough tell you what it needs.”
“Dough doesn’t talk.”
“It speaks through texture, resistance.” I guide her hands through another fold. “Feel how it pushes back? That means it needs more work.”
Her body fits perfectly against mine, and the domesticity of teaching her to bake bread at four in the morning hits different. Like we’re building something here, between the flour dust and silence.
“And when it stops fighting?” Her voice catches as my thumbs stroke her wrists.
“Then you know it’s ready.” I rest my chin on her shoulder. “Just like people.”
She stills. “Are you saying I’m fighting?”
“Aren’t you?”
The dough squishes between her fingers. “Maybe I have reasons to.”
“We both do.” I press closer, containing her restless movements. “But maybe we’re both tired of fighting.”
Her head drops back against my chest. “I don’t know how to stop.”
“Start with the dough.” I release her hands, letting her take control. “Trust yourself to know when it feels right.”
She kneads in silence for a moment, her movements becoming more confident. “What if I mess it up?”
“Sometimes you have to make a mess before you can make something good.” I brush my lips against her temple. “That’s the beauty of bread. There’s always more flour.”
“Is that what we’re doing?”
“I hope so.”
She turns, flour dusting her cheeks, and my t-shirt slinked down, revealing the elegant curve of her shoulder. “Even if it’s really messy?”
“Cupcake.” My thumb brushes the flour from her skin. “I’m done with perfect. It’s fucking exhausting.”
“It is.”
“We finally agree on something.”
“We agree on plenty of things.”
“Name one.”
“Uhm… that pancakes are harder than they look?”
“Back to work.”
“Yes, chef.” She salutes and presses her fingers into the dough with just the right amount. “Anne’s mother used to bake a lot. Cinnamon rolls were her favorite.” Her hands falter, and her shoulders hunch forward.
I know that look. The same one she had at dinner, right before she disappeared to the bathroom. Not tonight. Not when we’re building something good here.
“Hey.” I envelop her hands, stilling their trembling. “Stay with me.”
“I’m fine.” But her voice has that brittle edge.
“You’re not. And that’s okay.”
“The dough’s getting cold.” I keep my body close to hers. “Show me that fold again.”
Her hands move mechanically at first, but the repetitive motion seems to ground her, the trembling subsiding with each push and turn.
“That’s it.” I match my breathing to the rhythm of her kneading. “Just focus on how it feels.”
“It’s… smoother now.”
“See? You’re a natural.” I risk pressing a kiss to her neck. “Though your form could use work.”
She elbows me in the ribs. “My form is perfect.”
“There’s that word again.”
“Shut up and tell me what’s next.”
“We need to let it rest.”
“For how long?”
“Until it rises.” I shape the dough into a ball, lifting it into an oiled bowl. “About an hour.”
“An hour? What do we do until then?”
I cover the bowl with a towel, deliberately slow. “I can think of a few things.”
“Brandon—”
“Like cleaning this mess.” I gesture at the flour-covered counter. “What did you think I meant?”
“The same.” She clears her throat. “What else?”
“Sure, cupcake.” I tug her closer by my shirt she’s wearing.
“Brandon?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.” Her voice is soft but steady. “For distracting me.”
I tighten my arms around her. “Someone has to save my bathroom tiles from your stomach acid.”
She pinches my arm, leaving a floury fingerprint. “Way to ruin the moment.”
“What can I say? I’m talented that way.”
The dough rises slowly in its bowl, like hope building in my chest. Like the way she’s slowly rising too, learning to trust herself again. Learning to trust us.
One day.
One day, I’m going to spoil you with the best food.
I hope you’ll wait for me.