Chapter Nine
STEVIE
I make the cookies at 2 AM because that’s when the doom hits peak volume and I need my hands wrist-deep in something soft and yielding before I call Saul.
The kitchen smells like butter and sugar and something that almost feels like home. Almost. If I squint hard enough, ignore the witness relocation vibes, ignore the fridge that hums like it’s hiding FBI secrets, ignore the fact that the view out the window makes me want to scream.
Just butter, sugar, and delusion.
I cream the butter and sugar the way I’ve done a thousand times. Add eggs, vanilla, the peanut butter that Saul bought without being asked. Measure flour, baking soda, salt. Fold in chocolate chips until the dough looks right, feels right, tastes right when I lick the spoon because salmonella and I already have a death pact.
Three dozen cookies. That’s reasonable. That’s normal. That’s not too much.
Last scoop, and my eyes betray me. They lock on the nuts. Pecans and walnuts. Waiting. Whispering. Judging.
I like nuts in my cookies. Pecans or walnuts. Either works.
I like forearms and federal badges and the sound Saul makes when he clears his throat.
It’s his fault. He said it, while I was trying not to sniff him like a freak.
I like nuts in my cookies.
Like it was nothing. Like I wouldn’t etch that sentence into my brain and build him a dessert-based shrine two days later.
I should leave it alone. The regular cookies are fine. Good, even. He doesn’t need Saul Special cookies. He doesn’t need me psychoanalyzing his grocery choices and baking him gratitude with a side of unresolved attachment issues. But here I am.
The walnuts are in my hand and my dignity is in the fucking garbage.
My inner critic, nosy bitch, whispers ‘he’s going to think you want to marry him,’ and my pussy whispers ‘maybe I do.’
I open the bag.
The second batch is sluttier. Bigger. Brown sugar cookies. Walnut-laced and a little unhinged. Twelve oversized cookies. If I’m going to be insane, I’m going to be deliciously insane.
When they come out golden and obscene, I give them their own container. No label. No explanation. Just vibes. I know which ones are his.
So now it’s 3 AM. I’m surrounded by 48 cookies, horny, sleep-deprived, and baking love spells into brown sugar circles for a man whose thighs probably register as lethal weapons in seven states.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Don’t answer that.
He knocks at eight.
I’ve been awake for an hour, showered, dressed, brushed this fake blonde hair like I’m auditioning for a role in Functional Human: Season 1. I look almost like someone named Beth Taylor who absolutely did not emotionally imprint on a bag of walnuts and spiral-bake at 3 AM for a man she’s known for forty-eight hours.
“Hi,” I say, as if I haven’t already practiced this interaction in my head twelve times while pretending to eat breakfast.
“Hi,” he says, and he double takes. Takes in the hair, the clothes, the fact that I’m vertical and not weeping into a pile of stolen identity documents. “You look... better.”
Better than what? Better than federal collapse Barbie from yesterday?
“I made cookies.”
It flies out of my mouth like I’ve never heard of chill. Like I’m not three seconds from blurting “I also licked the spoon and thought about your forearms.”
I could’ve said anything. Good morning. Come in. I respect boundaries. But no. I chose cookie confessions.
