“And flour.” He pulls out a bag. “And sugar. Brown and white. Noticed you were running low.”
He noticed my baking supplies.
He was in my kitchen, checking locks, probably, or pretending to, and he noticed I was almost out of flour and sugar.
“You’re taking inventory of my pantry now?” I say it like a joke but my ovaries sayhiandhe’s nesting,and my brain is filing this underforeplay via bulk goods.
“Just the critical items. Butter. Flour. Chocolate chips. Sanity.” He almost smiles. “Can’t have you running out of stress-baking materials. That’s a safety hazard.”
“For who?”
“For me. If you can’t bake, you’ll find other coping mechanisms. Probably worse ones.”
He has no idea how right he is. If he knew, he’d install a 24/7 pastry surveillance system.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. “Really. This is... you didn’t have to do any of this.”
“I know.” He gives me that look again. Like he’s flipping through a classified dossier I can’t read but somehow stars me on every page. “You okay? You look...”
“Tired?” I offer.
“Different.” He tilts his head slightly. “Something changed.”
My stomach drops straight through the floor and keeps going.
Does he know? Can he tell? Is there some kind of federal witness behavior analysis that detects when someone has committed multiple felonies against the person they’re supposed to be hiding from?
Am I glowing? Is the room humid with guilt? Did I exude‘I stalked Dario’energy?
“I’m fine,” I say, which is a lie. “Just had a rough couple days.” Also a lie. “You know. The usual existential crisis about being erased from existence.” Okay, that one’s true.
He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push.
“Have you eaten today?”
“I had coffee.”
“That’s not food, Stevie.”
“It has calories. Arguably.”
“Arguable calories don’t count.” He gestures toward the door. “Come on. There’s a burger place two blocks from here. You need actual food and I need to not worry about you passing out from malnutrition.”
“Is that in the handbook? ‘Ensure witness consumes adequate nutrients’?”
“Page forty-seven. Right after bring her blankets so she stops living in a beige depression cave.”
I laugh.
It surprises me, the sound coming out easy, unforced. Real.
Saul watches. That same way he did after the waffle iron story, cataloging the laugh like it might disappear if he doesn’t save it properly.
“There she is,” he says.
And something reckless inside me sits up, grabs a knife, and whispershe sees you.
I need to bake something. Or fuck someone. Possibly him.
