I pull the teal blanket up like it might protect me from consequences.
It will not. But it smells like kindness and coffee and maybe a little hope, so I let it lie to me.
He coughs softly. Shifts like he’s wrestling with guilt or trying to find the least tragic position to sleep in.
Either way, we’re both losing.
Tomorrow I’ll start setting up the bakery. Tomorrow I’ll figure out how to be Zoey Carter, small-town baker, woman of mystery and emotional baggage sold separately.
A pastless cupcake peddler with no mafia men in her bed.
Living the beige dream, baby.
Holding Enzo’s mug like it’s a goddamn emotional support chalice. Listening to Saul breathe like a sexy metronome. Tryingnot to think about all the ways I’m fracturing like a dropped cookie with too much butter and not enough warning.
I dream about cookies.
Not eating them. Not sharing them. Justmakingthem.
Which feels rude, honestly. Even my subconscious won’t let me have nice things.
But every time I reach for the baking sheet, it’s empty.
Like my brain is doing interpretive grief theater and did not ask if I wanted a front-row seat.
I wake up at 4 AM with tears on my face and zero memory of what set them off.
Love that for me. Big fan of crying as a mystery genre.
The apartment is dark. Quiet. Through the window I can see stars. Actual stars.
Colorado really said, “Here, have wonder. You look like you need it.”
I get up. Pad to the kitchen. Fill the kettle, because sleep is canceled and emotional tea consumption is Plan B.
“Hey.”
I spin around.
Saul’s standing in the doorway, hair mussed, wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, looking soft and rumpled and not at all like a U.S. Marshal.
“Sorry,” I say. “Did I wake you?”
“Couldn’t sleep anyway.” He moves into the kitchen, leans against the counter. “Bad dream?”
“I don’t remember.” A lie. I remember the empty baking sheets. The reaching and finding nothing. “Just restless.”
He nods. Doesn’t push.
The kettle starts to hum.
We stand in my kitchen in the dark, waiting for water to boil, not talking. It should be awkward. Two people who maybe want things they can’t have, pretending 4 AM tea is normal.
But it’s not awkward. Which is suspicious.
It’s just… quiet. The kind that doesn’t ask you to explain yourself.
“I have a thing,” I say suddenly. “Where I bake when I can’t sleep. Or think. Or exist without vibrating.” I shrug. “It’s cheaper than therapy and the results are edible.”
