Chapter 3 #2
The video opens mid-motion. No introduction, no setup.
Just Brody, bare-chested in low-slung jeans, flour already streaked across his stomach, sliding across his kitchen floor in socked feet with a mixing bowl in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other.
A song is playing, bass-heavy, and he’s moving to it with his entire body, hips rolling, shoulders loose, spinning the spoon between his fingers before catching it and pointing it at the camera with a smile that has me fanning myself.
Damien sits on his stool in a tiny red vest, watching with the weary tolerance of a costar who didn’t agree to this.
Brody cracks eggs one-handed, flicking the shells into the trash without looking, still moving to the beat.
He pours flour, and a cloud of it rises, catching the golden light, and settles on his chest. He doesn’t wipe it off.
He just keeps going, stirring, measuring, his hips never fully still, every motion fluid and theatrical and so comfortable in his own skin that it makes my throat dry.
He grabs the rolling pin, holds it to his mouth, tips his chin up, eyes closed, and mimes the lyrics with absolute commitment, full chest voice he’s pretending to belt, shoulders swaying, free hand pressed to his heart.
Damien stands up on the stool, walks to the edge, and very deliberately turns his entire body away from Brody. Tail flick. Total dismissal.
Brody opens one eye, catches the rejection, and his silent laughter shakes his shoulders.
Then he’s rolling dough, pressing it flat with the heels of his palms, and the muscles in his forearms shift and tighten with every push. He shapes two large rounds, sets them side by side on the tray, and pauses. Looks at the camera. One eyebrow lifts as if he’s staring right into my soul.
Then brings his palm down on the dough. A firm, open-handed slap that echoes off the kitchen tiles.
My breath hitches, a sharp, stuttered inhale through my teeth that I’d deny under oath.
He slaps the other one. Slower. More deliberate. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, and his eyes stay locked on the lens. I grip my phone so hard the case creaks.
The buns go into the oven. Brody sets a timer, leans back against the counter, arms braced wide, and Damien hops from the stool to the counter in one fluid leap, walks directly through the flour pile Brody left behind, and stamps a trail of perfect white paw prints across the dark granite.
Brody groans. Damien sits in the flour, looks at the camera, and trills.
Five million followers exist because of moments exactly like this.
Brody reaches for a cloth to wipe the counter, and Damien bats it out of his hand.
It falls. Brody picks it up. Damien bats it again.
Brody holds it above his head. Damien stretches onto his hind legs and swipes for it with both paws, his red vest riding up, and Brody breaks, scooping him off the counter and cradling him against his bare chest while Damien immediately starts kneading his shoulder with both front paws, claws dimpling skin.
Brody winces, laughs, and buries his face in Damien’s fur.
For a few seconds, the performance drops away entirely.
Just a man holding his ridiculous, flour-footed cat in a warm kitchen while the timer ticks.
My chest aches, as I wasn’t prepared to feel anything.
Brody sets Damien on the seat. Damien promptly knocks the small wooden salt cellar off the edge. It clatters to the floor, and Brody doesn’t even flinch.
The timer dings. Brody pulls the buns from the oven, golden, risen, perfect.
He coats them in a salted caramel glaze, drizzling it slowly from a spoon held high, amber threads stretching and catching the light as they fall.
Some of it lands on his knuckles. He lifts his hand to his mouth and licks it off, eyes on the camera, unhurried.
Part of me is giddy to realize he’s made my sweet buns recipe, but as larger buns instead of smaller ones.
Damien inches toward the tray. One paw extends.
Brody gently redirects him with a finger to the forehead and slides a small plate of cat treats across the counter instead.
Damien sniffs the treats, eats one, and then bats the plate off the edge of the counter.
It clatters to the floor. Brody stares at the mess, at the cat. Damien stares back with zero remorse.
He picks up one bun with two hands. Holds it to the camera. Takes a bite. The caramel stretches between his lips and the bread, and he closes his eyes and groans, low and rough. My entire body flushes from collarbone to feet.
The video cuts to a title card. Clean white text on black.
Recipe from the incredibly talented (and delicious) Claire Darling.
The book is Salt and Comfort. Go buy it.
I stare at my phone as the screen goes dark. My own reflection stares back at me, a woman in a crop top with pink cheeks, parted lips, and an expression that would be deeply humiliating if captured on camera.
I turn my head toward his house, and he’s standing at the window.