Chapter 23
The apartment was quiet when I woke up.
No coffee brewing. No sounds from the kitchen. No warm weight beside me where he should have been.
I found him leaning against the counter, a cup of coffee in his hand, watching me with that expression he got sometimes. The one that made me feel like I was the only thing in the room worth looking at.
"You're up early," I said, still half in the doorway.
"It's noon."
I blinked. "What?"
"Noon, Elera. You slept through the morning."
I stared at him. Then at the clock on the microwave. 12:03. I hadn't slept past eight in-I didn't know how long. Years, maybe. There was always something to do. Always somewhere to be. Always some deadline that couldn't wait.
Today, there was nothing.
"I took a day off," I said slowly, like I was still convincing myself. "I don't have to go anywhere."
"I know."
"I don't have to do anything."
"I know."
"I could stay in my pajamas all day."
His eyes moved over me-the too-large shirt he had worn when he didn't have clothes, my hair loose and tangled, my face still creased from the pillow. Something in his expression shifted. Darkened.
"You could," he said. His voice had gone lower. "Or you could tell me what you're baking."
I perked up. "How did you know?"
"You've been talking about it for three days. Something about a recipe your mother gave you. Something about needing the right butter. Something about how the kitchen would smell like heaven."
I felt my face warm. "I don't talk that much."
"You do."
I stuck my tongue out at him. He didn't react, but his mouth twitched. That was enough.
The kitchen was small. It was always small. But with him in it, it felt smaller than usual. He had pulled a chair from the table and positioned it near the counter, his arms crossed, his eyes following my every move.
I was trying very hard to ignore him.
I had laid everything out already. Flour, sugar, butter, eggs. The recipe book was open to the page I had bookmarked months ago-chocolate cake with raspberry filling. I had been waiting for a day like this. A day with no deadlines, no meetings, no pressure.
I had not factored him into the equation.
"What are you making?" he asked.
"Cake."
"What kind?"
"Chocolate. With raspberry filling."
He was quiet for a moment. I measured flour, keeping my back to him.
"You don't like sweets," I said.
"I like what you make."
My hands paused over the bowl. I didn't look at him. I couldn't.
"That's a very smooth thing to say," I managed.
"I'm a smooth person."
"You're a menace."
He didn't deny it.
I creamed the butter and sugar, the mixer whirring loud enough to fill the silence. When I turned it off, he was closer. He had moved his chair. Or maybe he had just leaned forward. Either way, he was too close. The kitchen was a mess-flour scattered, milk, butter, wrappers everywhere.
Caspian was in the middle of it all, a dish towel over his shoulder, his sleeves rolled up, watching me wrestle with a bag of sugar like it had personally wronged me.
"You're doing it wrong," he said.
"I'm not doing it wrong. The recipe says-"
"The recipe says cream the butter and sugar. Not wage war on it."
I glared at him. "Are you going to help or just criticize?"
He moved behind me. His chest pressed against my back, his arms came around either side of me, and his hands covered mine on the bowl. His chin rested on my shoulder.
"Like this," he said.
And then he moved my hands. Slow. Steady. The butter and sugar came together under our fingers, turning pale and fluffy like it was supposed to.
"You're just showing off," I said. My voice came out breathier than I meant it to.
"I'm helping."
"Helping," I repeated. "Is that what you call it?"
His hands squeezed mine once. "What would you call it?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't. He was too close, his chest warm against my back, his breath warm against my neck, his hands still covering mine like he had all the time in the world.
---
"If you want to help," I said, "you can crack the eggs."
"Eggs."
"Yes. Eggs. Four of them. Into the bowl. Without getting shell in it."
He raised an eyebrow. "You think I can't crack an egg?"
"I think you're very confident for someone who has never made anything more complicated than pasta sauce."
He let me go. I missed the warmth immediately. He picked up an egg, held it in his palm, and looked at it like it had personally offended him.
"Just crack it," I said. "Gently. On the edge of the bowl."
He cracked it. Too hard. Shell scattered across the counter.
I stared at the mess. He stared at the mess.
"That was your fault," he said.
"My fault?"
"You distracted me."
"I was standing here. Doing nothing."
"You were standing there. Looking like you do."
I picked up a piece of shell and threw it at him. It bounced off his chest and landed on the floor.
He looked at it. Then at me.
"Did you just throw an eggshell at me?"
"You deserved it."
He moved faster than I expected. His hand caught my wrist, his other arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me against him. I was laughing, already laughing, because he was ridiculous and this was ridiculous and I had flour on my shirt and he was looking at me like I was the only thing in the room.
"You're very brave," he said, "for someone who's covered in flour and trapped."
"I'm not trapped."
His arm tightened. "You're not?"
I pushed at his chest. He didn't move.
"Cas. The cake."
"The cake can wait."
"The batter will overmix."
"Then I'll eat it raw."
I stared at him. "You'll get salmonella."
"I'll risk it."
I laughed again. I couldn't help it. He was holding me in my too-small kitchen, my hands were covered in flour, and there was eggshell on the floor, and he was looking at me like I was something precious.
"Let me go," I said.
"No."
"Cas."
"Say please."
"Please let me go so I can finish baking the cake that I've been waiting to make for weeks."
He considered this. His thumb traced a line along my hip, slow and deliberate.
"What do I get if I let you go?"
I blinked. "What do you- you get cake. That's what you get. Cake."
"I'm not sure cake is enough."
"You're impossible."
"I'm negotiable."
I leaned up and kissed him. Quick. Light. Just enough to shut him up.
He let me go.
I turned back to the bowl, my face warm, my hands not quite steady. Behind me, I heard him pick up another egg.
"Gently," I said.
He cracked it. Perfectly.
I looked at him. He looked at me.
"Beginner's luck," he said.
I didn't believe him. I was sure he had been deliberate about the first egg.
"Why do you bake?" he asked.
I cracked an egg into the bowl. "Because I like it."
"That's not an answer."
I looked at him. He was waiting. Patient. The way he always waited, like he had all the time in the world.
"I started when I was young," I said. "My mom worked a lot. She was always tired when she came home. But when I baked something, she would sit at the kitchen table and eat it and smile, and for a little while she wasn't tired anymore."
I added the next egg. Careful. Measured.
"I kept doing it after I moved out. When I was stressed. When I was sad. When I didn't know how to fix something. It helped."
He didn't say anything. I didn't look at him.
"The cake," I said. "For the whole week. The Arclight thing. Sienna finally said it was acceptable. That's basically a celebration in her language."
"You're celebrating with cake."
"I'm celebrating with cake." I turned to face him. "Do you have a problem with that?"
He set his coffee down. Crossed to where I was standing. His hand came up to my face, his thumb brushing flour off my cheek.
"No problem," he said. "Just wondering."
I swallowed. "What?"
He didn't answer. He just looked at me, his thumb still against my cheek, his eyes dark, and I forgot, for a moment, what we had been talking about.
"Cas."
"Hm?"
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
I pulled back. Picked up the whisk. Pointed it at him. "Distracting me."
His mouth curved. It wasn't a smile. It was something worse.
"You're the one who keeps staring."
"I'm not staring."
"You're blushing again."
"I'm not-" I turned back to the mixer. "You need to leave the kitchen."
"I need coffee."
"You have coffee."
"I want more coffee."
I poured the batter into the pan. "Then get more coffee. Away from me."
He didn't move. I could feel him behind me, close enough that his warmth reached through my shirt, close enough that I could smell the coffee on his breath.
"You're very bossy when you bake," he said.
"I'm very bossy in general."
"You're very bossy when you're trying not to smile."
I smiled. I couldn't help it. I turned and shoved the pan into his hands.
"Put this in the oven. It's preheated. 350 degrees. Don't drop it."
He looked at the pan. Looked at me.
"You're giving me orders."
"Yes."
"In your kitchen."
"My kitchen."
He took the pan, opened the oven. Put it inside like he had done it a hundred times. Closed the door. Set the timer on his phone.
"There," he said. "Now what?"
I looked at the counter. Flour everywhere. Sugar scattered. The bowl I had used for the batter, the measuring cups, the whisk I had pointed at him like a weapon.
"Now we wait," I said.
---
We waited on the couch.
He sat at one end. I sat at the other. It lasted approximately thirty seconds before I pulled his arm over my shoulders and tucked my feet under his thigh. He didn't comment. He just let me settle against him, his hand finding my hip, his thumb tracing idle patterns on my waist.
"You really don't like sweets?" I asked.
"I don't dislike them."
"You never eat them."
"I eat what you make."
I tilted my head up. His face was relaxed, his eyes half-closed, his thumb still moving against my side.
"That's not-you don't have to eat things you don't like just because I made them."
He opened his eyes. Looked down at me.
"I eat them," he said slowly, "because you made them."