Chapter 21
Mina
I dragged myself out of bed, the hardwood floor cool beneath my feet, and made my way to the kitchen like a sleep-deprived zombie.
The quiet hum of the refrigerator was the only sound that greeted me.
The house felt too still, too big without Nikolai’s heavy footsteps or sarcastic commentary.
I stared at the empty coffee pot like it had personally offended me.
Nope. I was not going to mope.
I tied my hair up in a messy bun with the elastic I always kept on my wrist and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt—it nearly swallowed me whole, and somehow that made me feel even more ridiculous for missing him this much already. We weren’t married. He was gone for, like, five days. Chill, Mina.
But the ache didn’t go away. Not completely.
Still, I shook it off and busied myself with the most dramatic act of defiance I could muster: domestic productivity. I brewed coffee. I tidied up the pillows on the couch like I was auditioning for HGTV. I even folded his laundry—well, one hoodie, but that totally counted.
I turned the music up—loud enough to shake the windows, but not enough to get a noise complaint (probably).
A girl had to do something with the silence that crept in the second Nikolai left.
The bass thrummed in my chest like a heartbeat, sweeping away the sleep and that mopey, lonely feeling that had been creeping in around the edges.
I cracked open a few windows and let the crisp morning air rush in, dancing with the curtains and making everything feel a little fresher. Okay. I could do this. I wasn’t going to be that girl—curled in a corner waiting for a text. Nope. Not today.
So I cleaned. Kind of. I wandered from room to room, picking up random clutter, wiping down counters, and yes, I even organized the fridge. By color. Don’t ask why—it just felt right. The chaos bowed before me. Queen of the Leftovers, thank you very much.
Eventually, I made my way back to the bedroom and spotted one of Nikolai’s hoodies slung over a chair, looking like it missed him too.
Without even thinking, I tugged it over my head.
It was huge and soft and smelled exactly like him—like clean laundry and something warm and masculine and unfairly comforting.
In the mirror, I looked ridiculous. Bare legs, wild bun, sleeves swallowing my hands. Ridiculous… and kind of adorable. I spun slowly, watching the fabric swing around me, like I was twirling in armor that just so happened to smell like a six-foot hockey player.
This house didn’t feel so big and empty now. It felt like his. Like ours. And maybe that was a dangerous thought, but I wasn’t going to overthink it right now.
I was warm. I was cozy. I was loved.
And okay, maybe I was going to fold all his laundry and leave little smiley faces on the dryer sheets. Sue me.
Just as I was about to plop on the couch and cue up something mind-numbing on TV, my phone lit up on the counter. A message from an unknown number popped up:
WAG night tonight! A few of us are watching the game together if you wanna come Snacks are involved.
Also, this is Paige, by the way
Ryker's girl
I blinked. WAG night? I barely considered myself part of the girlfriend club, let alone worthy of an acronym.
But… maybe this was a good thing. A healthy thing.
Wouldn’t miss it
I tossed the phone onto the counter and smiled for the first time all morning.
I might’ve missed Nikolai like crazy, but I wasn’t going to spend the week wrapped in his hoodie and sadness.
I was going to put on mascara, eat chips with the girlfriends of professional athletes, and scream at a television screen like a woman with emotional range.
Let’s go, chaos tornado. Your girl’s got this.
I jingled my keys like they were magical charms and marched out the door, only to be ambushed by the crisp bite of morning air.
Yikes. Jacket? Optional. Regret? Immediate.
Still, I grinned to myself as I locked up behind me.
Grocery shopping wasn’t exactly glamorous, but today it felt…
symbolic. Like I was taking back something. My routine. My choices. My life.
By the time I stepped into the store, I was already humming along with the overhead music—some cheesy pop hit from high school that made me feel like I was in a coming-of-age montage.
The produce section sparkled like a rainbow exploded.
I tossed apples and oranges into my cart like I knew what I was doing (I absolutely did not), then added a bunch of kale just to feel morally superior for five minutes.
Halfway through the cereal aisle, my phone buzzed. Mikel. My whole body tensed. That one stupid name could still mess with my heartbeat like a fire alarm. But I didn’t even open the message. Nope. Swipe. Gone. Not today, Satan.
I continued my domestic rebellion by holding up two different jars of pasta sauce and dramatically whispering, “Do I look like someone who makes my own marinara?” before tossing both into the cart. I was absurd, and honestly, I loved that for me.
Chocolate chips? Yes. A tiny bottle of vanilla extract even though I wasn’t sure if Nikolai already had one? Double yes, because he definitely didn't. This wasn’t just shopping—it was self-care with a grocery budget and a sprinkle of spite.
As I checked out, the cashier gave me a knowing smile. “Looks like someone’s baking today.”
“Or trying to,” I said, with a laugh that felt like it belonged to someone freer than I’d been in a long time.
Outside, the breeze ruffled my hair, and I hugged the bag of groceries like it was a trophy. Mikel could text all he wanted. He didn’t get to take up space in this part of my life. I had ingredients. I had chocolate. I had quiet.
And I had the start of something good—something mine.
I set the grocery bags on the counter, my heart fluttering with a chaotic mix of nerves and excitement.
This was it—my first attempt at something beyond nuking frozen dumplings and calling it a meal.
I was making a cake. A real cake. Like, eggs and flour and everything.
It felt like a bold declaration of independence, or at least the prelude to a very entertaining disaster.
I rifled through the bags, pulling out flour, sugar, eggs, and a bunch of other things that looked vaguely familiar from Pinterest videos. I turned on the oven and watched the display light up like I was summoning a fire-breathing dragon to assist me in my domestic quest.
Vanilla scented the air as I stirred the ingredients, my confidence growing with every messy swirl of the spoon.
A few generous handfuls of chocolate chips tumbled in, because when in doubt, add chocolate.
The batter looked promising—lumpy, but hopeful.
I poured it into the pan, said a quick prayer to the baking gods, and slid it into the oven like a pro.
Then came the waiting. I paced. I peeked through the oven window like it held the secrets of the universe. What if it burned? What if it sunk in the middle? My anxiety pinged between those two thoughts like a pinball machine. But then—magic.
The scent of warm cake wrapped around me like a hug. I crouched to watch it rise, perfectly golden and fluffy. A miracle. Actual edible joy. I might’ve gasped. Just a little.
Once it cooled, I flipped it out of the pan and onto a rack without incident (my inner child did a victory dance). I grabbed my phone and snapped a picture; the sun catching the golden edges like I’d summoned a star into my kitchen.
Look what I made! Not burnt!
His reply came seconds later:
Impressive. Save me a slice.
Cue blush. My whole face warmed as I stared at the screen. It wasn’t just the cake—it was him, reacting to something I made. Wanting a piece of it. Wanting a piece of this life I was learning to build. It felt… special.
I leaned back against the counter, grinning like an idiot. Maybe this was what healing looked like. A hoodie two sizes too big, chocolate chip cake, and a guy who actually saw me. Not just as something to possess—but someone worth showing up for.
I couldn’t help myself—I grabbed a fork and cut into the cake, the warmth still rising in soft curls of steam. It smelled amazing, like victory and vanilla and just a hint of overconfidence. I took a bite, already imagining the pride I’d feel when Nikolai texted back with something like wife me.
But then…
Oh no.
The sweetness was there, sure, but the texture? Nope. Dense. Like a chocolate brick in disguise. My stomach flipped—not in a good way.
I leaned over the counter, eyes wide in betrayal. What even was that?
How did I mess up cake? Cake! It was supposed to be the easy thing, the beginner’s win. I glanced at the clock and felt my heart sink. Hours. I’d spent actual hours on this. The sun had moved on without me, leaving the kitchen awash in lazy afternoon light and the smell of failed ambition.
“All right, Mina,” I muttered, dragging a hand down my face. “Shower. Regroup.”
I left the fork in the battlefield and shuffled to the bathroom, peeling off disappointment with every step.
The moment water hit my face, clarity returned in droplets.
The mirror greeted me with a wild-haired reflection and tired eyes, but I met her with a steady nod.
The cake flopped. So what? I was still here.
Still standing. And the day? Still mine.
The hot water poured over me like a much-needed reset button, steam curling around my shoulders as I tilted my head back and let it wash away the day.
The scent of Nikolai’s body wash—fresh, woodsy, entirely him—lingered in the air, and I couldn’t help but smile as I lathered up.
It felt indulgent, comforting, like I was borrowing a little piece of him while he was away.
As the water warmed my skin and eased the tightness in my muscles, I closed my eyes and let myself breathe, slow and deep, until the world felt just a little softer again.
I stood in front of the mirror, steam still curling around the edges of the glass like some dreamy movie montage moment.
The shower had done its job—washed away the chocolate-chip-flour-fueled chaos of my baking adventure and the last stubborn flecks of homesickness I hadn’t wanted to name. Now? Now came the big leagues.
Getting dressed.
I wrapped the towel tighter around myself and stared at my reflection. My cheeks were a little pink from the heat, and my hair had taken on its usual post-shower waves—soft and rebellious at the same time.
“Okay, Mina,” I whispered to myself, drawing courage from somewhere deep in my squishy center. “You are a functioning, adorable adult. You are going to hang out with other humans. You are not going to say anything too weird. Probably.”
I pulled on my favorite jeans—snug enough to feel cute, but forgiving enough to let me eat chips without regrets—and paired them with a slouchy off-the-shoulder sweater that made me feel just the right kind of effortlessly put together.
Tossed my hair into a messy bun, dabbed on a little mascara and lip gloss, and stared at myself again.
Huh. Not bad. Kinda glowy. Like the kind of girl who bakes cakes and watches hockey and texts her boyfriend. Wait—was he my boyfriend? Don’t spiral, Mina.
“Mikel never let me do this,” I murmured, the thought slipping in like an unwelcome draft.
He’d kept me in the background, like I was some accessory that didn’t match the team vibe.
But Nikolai? He wanted me there. In his life.
Wearing his hoodie. Smelling like his shampoo. (Which, by the way, was totally elite.)
I smiled at my reflection—not a huge grin, just a soft, steady one. A “we’re doing this” smile. A “this is a new chapter” smile. I grabbed my crossbody bag, stuffed in some lip balm, and texted Paige: On my way. Can’t wait!
As I stepped into my sneakers and headed out the door, heart fluttering but brave anyway, I whispered to myself, “Let’s make this your normal.”
And I meant it.
The late afternoon sun spilled across the porch in golden streaks, wrapping around me like a warm hug, but stepping out today felt heavier—like I was crossing an invisible line into a new version of myself.
I glanced back at the sleek lines of his home—clean, modern, strangely comforting—and something fluttered in my chest. A quiet question.
Do I really belong here?
“This is my life now,” I whispered under my breath, locking the door behind me with more resolve than I actually felt. The click echoed louder than expected, final and reassuring all at once.
The drive to the address Paige had sent was a blur of caffeine, nervous lip-biting, and indie pop blasting through the speakers to drown out any creeping doubt.
My phone buzzed twice with Mikel’s name flashing across the screen like an unwelcome ghost. I stared at it long enough to feel the anger simmering, then silenced it without a second thought.
No. Today wasn’t about him. Today was about me.
The GPS led me through neighborhoods that felt like movie sets—gates, hedges trimmed with military precision, driveways that probably had names.
And then: the estate. It looked like something out of a bridal magazine or a Hallmark Christmas movie.
White columns, ivy crawling tastefully up the sides, hydrangeas that probably cost more than my entire rent back in the day.
I swallowed hard and parked, hands clenched on the steering wheel for a beat too long.
You’ve got this, Mina.
I stepped out of the car, smoothed down my sweater, and squared my shoulders like I was marching into an audition—or war. Maybe both. My boots clicked softly against the cobblestone, the house looming larger with every step, but I didn’t stop. Not anymore.
And just before I rang the bell, I smiled to myself, soft but certain. “Don’t worry, Reaper. I got this.”