Chapter 8
EIGHT
DOUGLAS
“I don’t know if we have a double boiler,” I tell Anna, balancing my phone between my shoulder and ear as I take the stairs two at a time. “It’s not my kitchen.”
“You don’t need a double boiler,” she says, already exasperated. “You just need to not panic.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You’re absolutely panicking.”
I push through the stairwell door and into the hallway, shifting the paper bag in my other hand so it doesn’t tip. “I’m managing a time-sensitive situation.”
“You’re making breakfast.”
“It’s not just breakfast.”
“Okay,” she says dryly. “Tell that to the eggs.”
I glance down at the carton like they might betray me at any second. “If these break, I’m hanging up on you.”
“You’ll be fine. Did you get everything?”
“English muffins. Eggs. Butter. Something labeled ‘Canadian bacon,’ which feels like a lie. And whatever this is.” I hold up a small container. “Hollandaise ingredients?”
“Lemon juice?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. You’re fine.”
“I don’t feel fine.”
“That’s because you’re cooking for someone you like.”
I don’t answer that.
Because—
Yeah.
“Walk me through it again,” I say instead, already unlocking Kathryn’s door and stepping inside.
“It’s not complicated,” Anna says. “You toast the muffins, cook the bacon, poach the eggs—”
I make it halfway into the kitchen before I stop.
Because she’s there.
Standing near the counter.
Eyes red.
Face tear-streaked.
Looking like she just got hit with something she didn’t see coming.
Everything in me shifts.
Fast.
“Hey,” I say, already dropping the bag onto the counter a little harder than I mean to. The eggs rattle dangerously, but I don’t care. “I’m going to call you back.”
“Doug—wait—”
I hang up.
Cross the room in three steps.
“What happened?” I ask, reaching for her.
She doesn’t answer right away.
Just looks at me like she’s trying to figure something out.
Or like she already did.
“You’re here,” she says, voice small.
“Yeah. Of course I’m here.”
Her breath shakes.
And that’s all it takes.
I pull her into me without thinking, one hand coming up to the back of her head, holding her steady against my chest.
“Hey,” I say again, softer now. “Talk to me.”
She presses her face into my shirt, and I feel the way she exhales—sharp, uneven, like she’s been holding it in.
“I thought—” she starts, then stops.
I wait.
Don’t rush it.
“I thought you left,” she says finally.
The words land hard.
Not because I don’t understand.
Because I do.
“I went downstairs,” I tell her. “I didn’t leave.”
“You were gone,” she says. “The bed was empty and—”
Her voice catches.
And yeah—
That hits.
“I get why you thought that,” I say quietly. “I do.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me, searching my face like she’s bracing for something.
“But I didn’t,” I add. “I’m still here.”
A beat.
“You didn’t even leave a note,” she says, and there’s a hint of frustration there now, cutting through the leftover hurt.
“That’s on me,” I admit. “I should’ve.”
“You should have,” she agrees.
“I didn’t think you’d wake up that fast.”
She stares at me. “That is not a good excuse.”
“It’s not an excuse.”
“Good.”
I nod once. “It won’t happen again.”
Silence settles between us for a second.
Not tense.
Just… recalibrating.
Then she glances down at the counter.
At the bag.
“At least tell me you didn’t leave just to… grocery shop.”
I huff out a breath. “I didn’t leave. I went downstairs.”
“Why?”
I reach for the bag, pulling it open.
“Because you said this was your favorite.”
She blinks.
“Eggs benedict,” I say. “From that diner.”
Her expression shifts.
Confusion first.
Then something softer.
“You went out to get ingredients?” she asks.
“And called in backup,” I add, nodding toward my phone.
“Backup.”
“My sister.”
She processes that for a second.
Then looks back at me.
“You’re making me breakfast.”
“That’s the plan.”
“You almost broke the eggs.”
“They’re still intact.”
“Barely.”
“Still counts.”
Her mouth twitches.
Just slightly.
Good.
I reach for my phone, unlocking it out of habit, and that’s when she sees it.
The list.
She leans in a little, squinting. “What’s that?”
I hesitate.
Not because I don’t want her to see it.
Because I didn’t plan on explaining it.
“Nothing,” I say.
“That’s not nothing,” she says, already stepping closer. “That’s… a list.”
“It is.”
“Of?”
I tilt the screen toward her.
She reads.
Slowly.
I watch her face as she does.
Show up on time.
Don’t leave without explaining.
Listen.
Follow through.
Make her feel chosen.
Her throat moves as she swallows.
“You wrote this,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“After last night.”
Her eyes flick back up to mine. “You made a checklist?”
“I like being thorough.”
“That’s…” she shakes her head slightly. “That’s not normal.”
“I know.”
Her gaze drops back to the screen.
“Some of these are checked off,” she says quietly.
“Yeah.”
“‘Show up.’” She glances around the apartment. “You did that.”
“I said I would.”
“‘Come back.’”
“I said I would.”
“‘Make her breakfast.’”
“That one’s in progress.”
Her lips press together, and I can see it—
The moment something shifts for her.
Not completely.
Not all the way.
But enough.
“You’re serious,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“About… all of this.”
“Yeah.”
A beat.
Then—
“Why?” she asks.
Simple question.
Not simple answer.
“Because I meant what I said last night,” I tell her. “I take care of the people I care about.”
Her breath catches just slightly.
“And I care about you.”
That lands.
I can see it.
She doesn’t look away this time.
Doesn’t deflect.
Doesn’t joke.
Just… holds my gaze.
“You barely know me,” she says.
“I know enough.”
“Like what.”
“That you don’t pretend,” I say. “That you call things out. That you showed up again even when you had every reason not to.”
She exhales slowly.
“That doesn’t mean you should be… making lists.”
“It does for me.”
She studies me for a long moment.
“You’re very intense,” she says finally.
“I’ve been told.”
“This is how you do things.”
“Yeah.”
“All or nothing.”
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
Then—
“You said this was the last chance,” I remind her.
“It is.”
“Good.”
Her brows knit slightly. “Good?”
“I don’t need more than one,” I say. “I just need you to let me prove it.”
Silence.
But this time it’s not heavy.
Not uncertain.
Just… full.
“I hope you keep adding to it,” I add, nodding toward the list. “Because I’m not done.”
Her breath catches again.
“I’m not even close,” I continue. “And if you let me, I’m planning on having a long time to figure out new ways to show up.”
Her lips part. “You’re saying that very casually for something that sounds a lot like—”
“Like I’m falling for you?” I finish.
She goes still.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s what it sounds like, because it’s what I’m saying.”
A beat.
“You’re not subtle,” she says.
“No.”
“Not even a little.”
“Not with you.”
That does it. The last bit of resistance softens. It’s not gone, but it’s no longer calling the shots.
“Okay,” she says, echoing the word from last night.
Different this time.
Less uncertain.
More… willing.
“Okay,” I repeat.
Then I glance at the counter. “Now I need to not ruin this breakfast.”
She lets out a soft laugh.
“I’m definitely supervising,” she says.
“That’s fair.”
“And if you mess up the hollandaise, I’m ordering takeout.”
“Also fair.”
She leans against the counter, watching me as I start pulling things out of the bag.
Still a little red-eyed. Still a little guarded.
But… She’s still here.
And this time, neither of us are going anywhere.