Chapter 5
It Was Just A Cookie
Coleman
The back door shuts behind me with a soft click—quieter than when I left, but the air still feels thick with everything I couldn’t say.
The kitchen is warm. It smells like chocolate and cinnamon.
And somehow, they’re all here.
Payton’s perched on one of the stools, elbow on the counter, pretending like she’s only halfway into her cookie. Paige is swinging her legs and humming something off-key while cradling hers like it’s sacred.
And Remi—
She’s standing behind the island, soft smile tugging at her lips, like she belongs in this space. Like she’s always been in this space.
My stomach twists. Because for a split second… it looks right. Too right. I clear my throat.
All three heads turn, and Remi meets my gaze like she’s been waiting for it.
“I thought you left,” she says quietly.
I shrug. “Didn’t get far.”
She doesn’t press, just nods—eyes soft, unreadable. “Well, welcome back. I saved you one.”
She gestures to the small plate with a single cookie set aside from the others. Like she knew I’d come back. Like she always knows more than she says.
I glance at the girls. “What’s this?”
“Cookies,” Paige chirps.
“Matthew’s favorite,” Payton mutters with a smirk.
And there it is.
Matthew.
The name hits harder than it should.
My brain flashes back to her apartment. To her saying, “Matthew won’t mind.” To the overnight bag near the door. To her casual smile when I asked if she had a boyfriend.
She’d laughed. Deflected. Never answered..
Matthew.
Probably tall. Artistic. Wears beanies indoors. Has one of those sensitive-guy jawlines and a playlist of songs that make women cry in the car.
I grit my teeth. Remi, of course, catches it. Her eyes flicker with amusement.
“You look like you swallowed a lemon,” she says, sliding the plate toward me. “Something wrong with cinnamon?”
“Didn’t realize they were someone else’s favorite,” I say, tone clipped. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You didn’t.” She smiles sweetly. “Matthew’s just had a thing for these since I first started baking them.”
I nod once, jaw tight. “How long have you two been together?”
Paige snorts into her cookie.
Remi cocks her head. “Together?”
“You said it’s his favorite recipe. You live together—”
“Ohhh.” Her grin grows wider, eyes gleaming. “You mean my brother?”
My stomach drops. Shit. “I—” I start, but she holds up a hand.
“No, no. I like where this is going,” she says, walking around the island to lean against the bar beside the girls. “Let’s talk about the six men in my life, shall we?”
Six? My fingers tighten on the edge of the counter.
“I’ve been baking these cookies since I was twelve,” she says casually. “Had to. Five older brothers, one oven, and exactly zero chill. If I didn’t learn how to make food that could keep them from eating each other, I wouldn’t have survived adolescence.”
I stare at her. Five brothers and one dad.
Not boyfriends. Not exes. Not Matthew and some backup dancers.
But it doesn’t make me feel better. Because the truth is worse.
The truth is, I feel like an idiot. For assuming. For caring. For… whatever the hell is happening in my chest right now.
“You have five brothers,” I echo, dumbly.
“Mhm,” Paige says through a mouthful of chocolate. “She told us upstairs. They’re all obsessed with these cookies.”
Remi beams at her, and something about that small connection between them hits harder than it should.
I try to let it go. Try to be a grown-up. A professional. But my brain won’t shut up.
Six men. All protective. All hers. All first. How the hell could I ever compete with that?
Not that I should want to.
Because this isn’t a game. She’s not mine. This isn’t anything. Except—
She’s still smiling. Still looking at me like she sees exactly where my mind went, and maybe she doesn’t hate it. And that? That’s the most dangerous part of all.
Dinner was… easy. I didn’t expect that. After the way the day started—after the storm of emotions I carried out the back door—I didn’t think anything tonight would feel light. But somehow, it did. Remi didn’t join us.
She claimed she needed to unpack, but we both knew that was a lie. She hadn’t brought more than a duffel bag, a tote bag with a book and that obnoxiously loud water bottle. There’s nothing to unpack.
She gave us space. On purpose. And it worked.
The girls didn’t flinch. They weren’t watching her out of the corners of their eyes, waiting for her to flake or fold. They were just… kids.
Payton spent ten minutes describing the dystopian fantasy story she’s been sketching in her notebook. Something about a haunted forest, a rebel girl, and a wolf with glowing red eyes. It was dramatic and vivid and completely hers.
Paige, in her usual whirlwind way, pulled up a dance video on her tablet and nearly knocked over her chair trying to show me how to “drop it like the internet says.” I didn’t have the heart—or the spine flexibility—to correct her form.
And I laughed. Real laughter. The kind that doesn’t feel borrowed or forced.
I forgot what that feels like. Now the house is quiet again. But it’s not heavy this time.
It’s soft. Safe.
I walk into Paige’s room first. She’s curled up in bed, arms wrapped around her worn-out stuffed fox, the one Stella tried to throw away twice before I intercepted it.
Her room still looks untouched—like a guest room with princess sheets—but the night-light glows in the corner and her favorite book is on the nightstand.
I kneel beside the bed and brush a curl off her forehead. “Night, Button.”
“Night, Daddy,” she murmurs, eyes already fluttering.
She won’t stay here long. I know that.
She’ll wait until I’ve gone to bed. Then she’ll tiptoe down the hall to Payton’s room, climb into bed beside her sister, and bury herself in the blankets like it’s a fortress.
She’s been doing it every night since that night. Since they walked into our bedroom and saw what Stella thought was okay to bring into their world.
I didn’t stop her. I’ll never stop her. She can sleep wherever she feels safe. I kiss her temple and head to Payton’s room next.
She’s reading under the covers with a flashlight I bought her two years ago—one of those indestructible camping ones that doubles as a headlamp and, apparently, a sibling spotlight.
“You’re not fooling anyone.” I say, leaning against the doorframe.
“Didn’t ask you to be fooled,” she mutters, but there’s a smile in her voice.
I walk over and kneel beside her bed too, like I always do. She lowers the flashlight, cheeks flushed from being caught but not embarrassed.
“Thanks for telling me about your story earlier.”
She shrugs. “It’s not finished.”
“I hope it never is.”
That earns me a raised eyebrow.
“What? If it’s not finished, then I always get to hear more.”
She doesn’t smile. But she doesn’t scowl either. Progress.
“Night, Bug.”
She mumbles it back, already clicking off the flashlight and rolling to face the wall.
I linger for a beat. Then back out of the room, leaving the door cracked like always. Just enough for Paige to slip through later, blanket in hand, without waking me.
I pad down the hallway, stopping at the top of the stairs. The house smells like cookies again. A scent I hated when I walked in.
Now I’m not so sure. I glance toward the guest room.
The light is on beneath the door. Faint shadows move behind it—probably Remi still pretending to unpack, probably pacing, probably overthinking like she always seems to.
She didn’t join us at dinner. Somehow, that told me everything I needed to know. She didn’t try to force herself into the rhythm. She let us find it again on our own.
And that? That means more than I’ll ever say out loud.