Chapter 3 #3
"We're not alone anymore, princess. We're home. And home means family. Aunt Harper's here. Uncle Nate. We've got people who love us. We're going to be just fine."
Tears prick at my eyes. I squeeze the cookies, grounding myself. He's everything I've ever wanted—tender, strong, the kind of man who builds love instead of walls. The kind who makes a little girl feel safe, even when the world is shifting underneath her.
And something inside me shifts, too. It's not just attraction, not just nerves. It's the hope of belonging, of finding a home in the circle Adam shapes around Emma. I want to be part of that warmth, that circle—want to give Emma more sweetness than cookies could ever offer.
I want, dangerously, to be theirs. To help them heal, fill the spaces left aching by the past.
I gather myself, heart full and aching with possibility, and almost knock. Just as my knuckles hover above the wood, the door swings abruptly open—
The door swings open and my breath snags.
Adam stands in the threshold, shirtless, hair damp and curling around his forehead, water droplets skimming the line of his jaw, pooling at the dip in his collarbone.
He's wearing gray sweatpants slung low—something about the soft cotton, the clinging damp, the unstudied realness—makes my entire nervous system blink out, then reboot with a violent jolt.
There's a towel tossed over his shoulder, half-forgotten, the imprint of a recent shower still clinging to his skin.
For a second, neither of us moves. I clutch the cookie box like a shield, heart thundering so hard it almost rattles my teeth. My brain offers absolutely no help, only silence and heat and a string of curse words that would make Maya proud.
Adam's eyes widen in shock, then darken as they take me in.
Sundress, cardigan, knuckles white around the twine.
He grips the doorframe, veins flexing along his forearm, and an electric hush falls between us—like neither of us knows how to move first. I watch his pupils flare, watch him draw a slow breath, jaw working.
I try to speak, but nothing comes out except a squeak so small and pathetic I want to shrivel up and disappear. I scramble for a smile, glance at the invitation in my hand—and nearly drop the cookie box.
Before anyone can save me from myself, Emma barrels past him, barefoot and all wild curls, eyes bright with small-girl delight. She latches onto Adam's arm, peering around until she spots me. "June! Hi! Did you bring more cupcakes?"
I blink, entranced, words tangled in my throat. "N-not cupcakes. Cookies." I stammer, nearly inaudible, cheeks an inferno.
The card slips from my hand and flutters toward the ground. Adam reaches out—quick and sure, fingers brushing mine as he catches it midair. The touch zings through me.
He glances at the note, then back at me, and his voice comes out rough, deeper than I've ever heard it. "June. I was just—" He searches my face, something like wonder flickering in those hazel eyes. "Do you want to come in?"
My body is a riot of nerves and want, a chorus of internal panic. I am going to spontaneously combust on his doorstep. This is how I die. Death by shirtless firefighter.
But I hear myself say—quiet, trembling, but true—"Yes."
***
I toss and turn for hours, cold sheets tangling around my legs, my pulse rioting beneath my skin.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Adam at his door—shirtless, damp, the kind of body you dream about but never admit to.
It's not the sweetness of tonight keeping me up, not the quiet laughter with Emma as we stuck stickers to her bedroom wall.
It's hunger. A low, burning want in my belly that has nothing to do with cookies or neighborly kindness.
My mind keeps replaying it all in high-def. The path water took down his chest, the curve of muscle, the way his sweatpants clung and hinted, the trail of dark hair below his navel. I fan myself, tell myself to think of anything else, but I don't really want to—and that's the truth I can't outrun.
I've read about chemistry in books, always wondered if the heat that lives in stories was real. Tonight, I found out. It is, and it's overwhelming. I shift, restless, finally kicking free of the sheets and heading downstairs, desperate to bake away this feeling.
In the kitchen, I pull out ingredients for croissants, try to let familiar motions ground me—kneading, folding, rolling.
Except every sensation spikes, every bit of heat and touch reminds me of Adam.
The chocolate melts, rich and glossy. I dip my finger in, taste, and shiver, memory tangling with fantasy.
I imagine him in front of me, imagine reaching for him, imagine him reaching for me.
I scold myself—this is ridiculous, I hardly know the man. But my hands don't stop, and neither does the want.
The croissants are half-formed when my phone buzzes, jolting me from reverie. The clock says it's past twelve. Adam's name lights up the screen.
His text:
Baking insomnia, or something else keeping you up?
For a second, only the sound of the oven and my own racing heartbeat fills the room.
Does he know?
My fingers hover, treacherous, over the keyboard. I type, erase, type again—nothing feels right.
Finally, I send:
The usual. Stress-baking. You?
I stare at the screen; the three dots bounce—my heart leaps as the dots vanish, return, vanish. He's rewriting. Reconsidering.
Adam's reply comes:
Just thinking about my neighbor. Can't seem to stop.
Everything in me stills. Desire, hope, nerves—flooded, tangled. He means me.
I think.
My hands tremble. The cursor blinks. How do I answer? Am I brave enough to match his honesty, or do I hide behind a joke?
This is the moment—one reply, and the distance between us could change forever.
I swallow. The words hover, daring me. I could close my eyes, hit send, and let the universe tilt.
But for now, I watch the blinking cursor, heart in my throat, the air between my house and his thick with everything unsaid.