TWENTY-SEVEN.
Tobias
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A cup of sugar.
I wake to static crackling in my head, faint and disjointed at first, pulling me slowly from the depths of sleep.
It takes a moment for the sound to sharpen into something familiar—the walkie-talkie on my nightstand going in and out, someone pressing and releasing the button on the other end.
Then her voice slips through, a whisper that drags me fully awake.
“Tobias.”
Ever’s voice flows over the speaker, quiet but laced with that teasing edge I recognize too well. A grin spreads across my face before I’m even fully conscious. This isn’t an emergency. If it were, she’d be louder, more urgent. This is something else.
I roll onto my side, reach out, and find the walkie right where it always sits. I clear my throat, knowing my voice will come out rough from sleep, and press the button.
“Yes, Princess?” I say, my grin widening like I’m a kid who just got away with something. “Everything alright?”
“Doing fine, Mr. Grump,” she replies easily, her usual comeback whenever I check on her. “Did I wake you?” Her tone is still hushed, but amusement bubbles underneath it now, brighter.
I stretch an arm out again and snag my phone. The screen lights up when I lift my head—2:43 a.m. What the hell is she doing calling me at three in the morning?
“Are you sure you’re alright?” I ask, but I can already see it in my mind—her lying in bed, walkie pressed to her lips, probably biting back a laugh at my expense.
“I need to ask you for a favor,” she says, and my brain immediately veers into darker territory. Lying in bed, walkie to her mouth, hand sliding down, wanting something only I can give her. My muscles tighten at the thought.
“What kinda favor?” I ask, chewing the inside of my lip, anticipation curling tight in my chest.
“I need to borrow a cup of sugar,” she says.
My mind stumbles. I replay the words, searching for the innuendo, the double meaning that has to be there, but it doesn’t quite land.
“A cup of sugar?” I press, confused.
Static crackles again, and then she’s laughing—soft, delighted, like she’s been waiting for my reaction. “Is that not what you were expecting?” she asks, humor thick in her voice.
I shake my head against the pillow and drag in a deep breath, willing my pulse to slow. “Why do you need a cup of sugar?”
“Well, technically, I need three,” she says, and now I’m laughing too, rubbing the sleep from my eyes with the heel of my hand. “I messed up my first batch, and it’s obviously too late to go to the store.”
“You’re baking,” I state flatly, not really a question—just a deadpan three-a.m. observation that feels absurd coming out of my mouth.
“You did say once that I could call you in the middle of the night asking for a cup of sugar,” she reminds me, suddenly serious.
I nod to myself in the dark. I did say that, didn’t I? I thought I was being romantic, tossing out some cheesy line about being there for whatever she needed, no matter the hour. I never expected her to cash it in at 3 a.m. over actual baking supplies.
“Alright,” I say, already shifting under the covers. “So what else do you need?”
“Some big strong hands,” she answers, a laugh threading under her breath.
My mind flashes instantly to rolling dough, folding bread, kneading for hours. “Do I want to know why?” I ask, trying to gauge exactly what I’m walking into. There’s zero chance I’m not going over there with a bag of sugar, but I’d like to know what kind of chaos I’m signing up for.
“I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yet,” she says, and the way she draws out the words tells me I’m not gonna get a straight answer. She’s reeling me in.
“So just the sugar then,” I confirm, already sliding my legs out from under the covers.
“You’re coming over?” Her voice dips lower now, alluring, teasing, like she’s testing how fast I’ll move.
“Only because I’m curious about the hands,” I shoot back, matching her tone.
I glance down at myself—sweatpants and a faded t-shirt—and decide that’s as much effort as I’m willing to make at this hour. I grab a jacket from the chair, tug on socks, and shove my phone into my pocket.
In the kitchen I don’t bother measuring out three cups. If she’s already botched one batch, she’ll probably need the whole bag before the night is over. And if she’s already ran out of sugar, what else will she end up needing?
I grab a paper grocery bag from the pantry and load it up with everything I can think of—a carton of eggs, a bottle of vanilla extract, a bag of flour, baking soda, even a stick of butter just in case.
If this were anyone else calling me at this hour asking for sugar, I’d tell them to fuck right off and go back to sleep.
But with Ever it’s different. I’m a fool for her, falling harder every day, and the truth is I’d drive across the county in the middle of the night for a hell of a lot less than a cup of sugar.
When I pull up to her place the front door is already cracked open. I step inside, turn into the kitchen and stop short in the doorway.
She’s standing at the counter in tiny pajama shorts and a thin tank top dusted with flour, hair twisted up in a loose, messy bun that looks like it’s begging for my fingers to tug it free.
Batter streaks her cheek, a small smudge on her forehead too, and when she turns to look at me her whole face lights up with a wide smile that hits me square in the chest. My body reacts instantly—I feel like I could drop to my knees right here and beg her to let me have her.
“Did you bring the whole fridge?” she teases, eyeing the overstuffed bag, snapping me out of the haze.
“I figured you’d need more than just sugar at some point.” I step in and set the bag on the counter.
I start unpacking everything, laying it out in a neat row while I take in the chaos she’s created. Bowls everywhere, measuring cups tipped over, baking sheets lined up with cookies that… aren’t really cookies. An amused smile tugs at my mouth despite myself.
“Should I be concerned?” I ask, keeping my tone playful.
She laughs and swipes the back of her hand across her forehead, trying to brush away a stray strand of hair that’s already dusted white.
I step forward without thinking and lift both hands to her face.
I push the loose pieces back gently, tuck them behind her ears, and let my thumb trace the smear of batter on her cheek.
I bring my thumb to my mouth and suck the sweetness off, holding her gaze.
Her eyes go heavy, dark with want, but I force myself to step back. She got me here. She can feel the torture too.
“Have you been doing this all night?” I ask.
“Well, I thought I’d be done after the last batch, but obviously,” she says, gesturing at the sad tray on the counter, “I had to try again.”
I glance down at the cookies—flat, soggy centers, edges curled like they gave up halfway through baking. “I’m gonna be honest with you,” I tell her, half-serious, half-teasing, “maybe baking’s not for you.”
She grabs the nearest towel and chucks it at me. I catch it against my chest, laughing as flour puffs into the air. I wipe my hands on it and set it aside.
“How do you mess up cookies?”
“Obviously the recipe is wrong,” she says, indignant, huffing out a frustrated breath.
I chuckle under my breath, chewing the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning too wide. “Didn’t Marissa say you make pie?”
Her eyes widen for a second. “I’m surprised you remember that,” she says softly, her voice gentling. “I do make a Thanksgiving pie, but pie is basically just throwing fruit in a pan and laying crust over it. It doesn’t take much measuring.”
“Okay, so where do you think you’re going wrong?” I ask. I pick up the tray, carry it over to the trash can, and scrape them in. “Because this is definitely not what’s supposed to be happening.”
“I don’t know,” she says, waving her hands as she talks, sending flour everywhere without a care. “The first time I think I put too much vanilla—or maybe I forgot to shake the bottle properly, because it tasted awful. I had to spit it out.”
I lean back against the opposite counter, hands braced behind me, and just watch her.
This version of her—raw, unguarded, covered in flour and frustration—is something I’ve never seen before, and I can’t look away.
She’s beautiful like this, completely unfiltered, talking with her whole body like she’s forgotten anyone’s watching.
“So which batch did I just throw in the bin?” I ask.
“The second.”
“Alright, so they didn’t rise properly. Did you measure the baking powder right?”
Her hands drop to her sides. She narrows her eyes at me, suspicious. “Do you know how to bake?”
I shrug.
“Why do you even have sugar in your pantry? And all this other stuff?” She gestures at the contents on the counter, eyes narrowing harder.
I shrug again.
She lets out a soft chuckle, leaning back against the counter, her eyes suddenly brightening. “Oh my gosh. You know how to bake.”
“My mom knows how to bake,” I clarify, trying to keep my tone casual.
Ever laughs, like she’s already seen right through me. “What do you bake?”
“I don’t bake anything,” I say, shrugging it off. “These are standard household ingredients.”
“A twenty-five pound bag of sugar?” She arches an eyebrow. “No one casually keeps that much sugar in their pantry unless they actually need it for something.”
I feel the corner of my mouth twitch, but I don’t take the bait. “Why are you baking in the first place?” I ask instead, trying to shift the focus away from me and whatever she’s trying to piece together.
She lets out a long, heavy sigh and glances over at the chaotic counter. “I don’t know…” Her voice trails off, quieter now, and a thread of sadness slips into it, subtle but unmistakable. “Something to do, I guess.”
The silence that follows feels thicker than it should, heavier, pressing in from the corners.
For the first time the silence is loud, carrying the weight of whatever she’s not saying.
Beneath the teasing and the flour-dusted bravado, there’s something flickering in her eyes—grief, maybe, or loneliness, or the kind of late-night restlessness that makes even the smallest tasks feel like lifelines.
I step closer without really deciding to. I drop my gaze to the mixing bowl in front of her, then to the laptop open off to the side. I brush my fingers over the trackpad and the screen lights up, revealing a recipe page—chocolate chip cookies, classic, straightforward.
I lean in over her shoulder, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin, and force myself to focus on the lines of text instead of the way her breath catches or the faint scent of vanilla clinging to her hair.
Every instinct screams to close the last inch between us, to turn and kiss the sadness off her mouth until neither of us remembers why we’re awake at three in the morning.
“So what part are you on?” I ask, glancing sideways at her.
She holds my gaze, unflinching, her breath coming a little heavier now. Being this close is torture—every inch of her pulls at me like gravity. “That’s just flour,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.
I nod and lean back, then reach for the bag of sugar I brought. We move through the recipe together, step by step—measuring everything down to the last grain, following the instructions exactly the way they’re written.
I show her how to level off the measuring cup with a knife instead of packing it, how to cream the butter and sugar until it’s light and fluffy instead of just mixed.
She watches me closely, mimicking my movements, her earlier frustration softening into quiet focus.
We stir the dough until it looks right, then keep stirring until the tension releases from her shoulders and the spark of life comes back to her eyes.